


Not Afraid

by NorthCountryGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: Angst, Dark Sansa, Darth Sansa, End of the World, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Game of Thrones Post Season 7, Girl Power, Graphic Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Older Sansa, POV Arya Stark, POV Brienne of Tarth, POV Gendry, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Sandor, POV Sansa, Past Abuse, Queen Sansa, Rape Recovery, Sansa-centric, Sex God Sandor, Shameless Smut, Show Canon with Book References, Sorry Not Sorry, little bird, medieval property law
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthCountryGirl/pseuds/NorthCountryGirl
Summary: Game of Thrones Post Season 7 at Winterfell, show canon with book elementsJon & Co. return to Winterfell to prepare to fight the armies of the dead. Believing death is imminent, Sansa seizes the opportunity to take what she wants for once when Sandor shows up. Eventual Arya/Gendry and Brienne/Jaime. [work in progress][contains strong language, graphic sex, and references to past abuse]





	1. A Lady Ought to Have a Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsDanafox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsDanafox/gifts).



> Hey guys! This is my first fanfic and I'm really nervous about posting it. It’s not super plot-heavy, and the first 10k is basically a really long sex scene & the lead up to it. I'm taking the romantic subtext in ASOIAF and running with it madly into the night, inserting Sansa's feelings that were never explicitly stated but *I* think were probably there. ;) Other leaps: they're preparing for a second Long Night in case it comes, Sansa is now officially Wardeness of the North, and Jon and Daenerys are engaged. Not complete, not sure how long it's going to be. 
> 
> Please forgive any errors or typos, and please take it easy on me. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: obviously the characters and the world are not mine, and this is a loving if steamy tribute to GRRM and his amazing characters.

Jon’s return from King’s Landing was bittersweet. 

Bitter being the key word. Relieved as she was to see her brother home, he’d brought a slew of strangers with him, and not one of them was the one she wanted to see. Worse than that, he’d returned her husband to her. 

The one she  _ hadn’t _ fed to the dogs, that is. 

Tyrion glanced up at her over the rim of his wine glass and gave her a hesitant smile as she met his gaze. 

She ignored him. 

Sansa stared at her reflection in her wine. Were the shadows beneath her eyes truly that dark, or was it only the poor light in the hall? In spite of the dozens that had gathered to welcome Jon home and to see his dragon queen for themselves, the room was only half-lit with flickering tallow tapers on her orders to conserve the candles for the Long Night ahead. It was pragmatic, and Sansa was nothing if not pragmatic these days. 

Fortunately for their guests dining in darkness, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Queen of…. _ something or another _ had hair as silver as moonlight and between that and the huge grin she flashed every time Jon said anything to her, she seemed to light the room all by herself. 

Why wouldn’t she smile? She and Jon had chosen each other, after all. 

Sansa had never been permitted to choose anything of greater consequence than the color of her gowns. 

She clenched the wine glass, resentment building. She was happy for her brother, truly she was, but she wanted that happiness for herself. Gods only knew she earned it. 

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion began. “Perhaps, given the circumstances, you and I might—“

“No.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You don’t know what I was about to say.”

A tension migraine gathered between her eyes. She set her wine away from her. Too much, perhaps. “You were about to remind me we are still technically married and you were going to suggest we renew that union for the good of the realm.” 

He had the decency to look surprised. “That’s a very good guess, but then I suppose you had a remarkable tutor. How long did Littlefinger have you in his grasp?”

“Right up until I killed him.” She looked him squarely in the eyes so he’d know she was serious. “I have not yet seen my twentieth nameday and I have been married three times and widowed once. I have been raped, beaten, and passed around as a pawn between more people than I can remember. I am acting Wardeness of the North and I have no intention of surrendering my position or my person to any man for the good of the realm or anything else.”

He sipped his wine smugly. “Three times…?”

Had she said that aloud? She pulled the olive green cloak closer around her shoulders, feeling suddenly exposed. She set her jaw and lied. “Twice, that is. I was counting the betrothal to Joffrey.” 

“Were you now?” Tyrion almost smiled. He was a clever man, had he somehow intuited her deepest secret? He had been there that first time the Hound had given her his cloak. It was in a sept, no less, with no fewer than a hundred witnesses as well as the eyes of the Seven. 

The second time he’d left it with a kiss, and there was no one around to see. 

_ Three times.  _

“Our marriage was never consummated, Lord Tyrion. I have since been married and widowed, as you know. Given the circumstances, I think it best--” She sipped her wine to steady her nerves. “If we both agree to move on with our lives.”

“However short they may be.” He raised his glass to her. “My lady.”

She drained her glass. 

Not long after Jon had returned with the news that Cersei had made and immediately broken a promise to aid them in their fight against the armies of the dead, Bran had alerted them that the Others had breached the wall at Eastwatch and were on the march south with an ice dragon. Apart from their bannermen and Daenerys’ armies freezing in their camps outside, they were alone. There were dragons out there somewhere, but somehow that did not fill her with a great deal of confidence. If the Night King had taken one, what would stop him taking the rest? 

They would march out to meet the Others in the morning, if the Others did not find them first. 

Jon and his new queen were incandescent with joy. It was almost as though they didn’t know there was a good chance they would all die tomorrow. 

Still, it was up to Sansa to prepare Winterfell for the Long Night, and to manage their stores carefully in case they didn’t. It was what she’d been born for, running a castle. Her mother had told her so often she knew it as she knew her own name. She was born to be a lady, to manage an estate, to make a good marriage, and to bear strong sons. 

Sansa snorted to herself. So much for the good marriage. 

She had held up her end of the bargain every step of the way, it was the world that hadn’t come through for her. She had behaved herself and was derided for it. Her kindness had been rewarded with treason. She acted in the best interests of her family and had lost them. She married as she was instructed and she was repaid with the worst kind of abuse. She had done everything asked of her, everything, and what did she get for it? 

One more duty to fulfil for the good of the ungrateful. 

Seeing the look on her face, Tyrion refilled her wine glass. “I cannot express how sorry I am for what you endured at the hands of the Boltons. I would have saved you, if I could.” 

She nodded. He was a good man, but it had taken knowing an evil one for her to understand that. “My thanks, Lord Tyrion.”

“I cannot say I envy the young Lord Bolton his end. Torn apart by wild dogs...”

“They weren’t wild. They were mine. Or they are now, at any rate.”

He didn’t so much as blink. “You always had a way with dogs. Is there anyone else you’re planning to feed to one?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, unsure of what he was getting at. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” He regarded her carefully, his expression giving nothing away. “I can see you have learned a great deal. Or perhaps it is only now you are showing it. I hope you have learned enough to treasure loyalty, no matter what form it might take.”

She lowered her voice. “If I meet anyone loyal, I will be certain to do just that.”

“Dogs,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing he could think of. “You can always trust your dogs. They’ll follow you anywhere. They recognize you after years apart. They love you even if you kick them. A lady ought to have a dog to watch over her through the Long Night.”

She held his gaze, waiting for him to make his point. He’d all but said he knew of her feelings for Sandor Clegane, but to what end? “Are you suggesting yourself for the position, my lord?”

“Oh no,” he scoffed. “I rather fear it might already be taken.”

“Speak plainly, Lord Tyrion.”

“I mean no harm,” he apologized. “I only mean to say that if my suspicions are correct—and they usually are—you could do worse. You have my blessing, such as it is.”

Sansa recoiled as if she had been slapped. Had her husband just given her permission to love another man? Torn between resentment and gratitude, she had no idea what to say. “If he comes back.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Dogs always do.”

The din of the conversation in the hall shifted suddenly as another group of people entered. She recognized Davos Seaworth at the front, followed closely behind by Tormund Giantsbane, the wildling with the mad red hair. There were a dozen others she didn’t recognize, but Jon seemed to. As he and Daenerys rose to greet them, Arya blurted something and vaulted over the table, flinging herself full tilt at some young man and knocking him to the floor on his arse. The group was badly shaken and clearly freezing. Only the gods knew what they had seen. She stood to greet them and that’s when she saw him. 

Bringing up the rear, he shuffled into the hall with heavy feet, as though marching to his own execution. He was limping, she realized, but it was clear he had no desire to enter the hall. He stayed back some distance, avoiding her gaze, but he was so much taller than the rest of them he couldn’t be missed. 

_ He was alive. _

She had been told as much, but hearing and seeing were two very different things. Her long-suffering heart urged her to embrace him, to touch him there and then just to satisfy herself he was real. 

“Ah. There’s one now,” Tyrion said into his wine. 

Sansa ignored him and rushed to the kitchens, issuing orders for clean beds and hot water for the contingent from Eastwatch. Sandor must have met up with them on the road. On impulse, she instructed the servants to put him in the room next to hers with a hot bath and a screen in front of the hearth. She wouldn’t have him freezing to death for his fear of fire. 

After she had made arrangements for the comfort of their guests, she returned to the hall only to find him gone. Disappointed and wondering if she had imagined him, she nevertheless smiled through the introductions to all the new faces. The man Arya had knocked over was a chatty one, and the two of them teased each other a mile a minute, oblivious to everything going on around them. Sansa was relieved to see Arya had at least one friend. 

One of them should. 

She returned to the kitchen with a heavy heart. Years apart, and he hadn’t even come to see her. 

Sansa almost tripped over two maids huddled in the doorway. They were arguing in hushed whispers over a tray of food. 

“Cook needs me here, you go.”

“You go! If I go alone, he’ll kill me or ravish me, I know it!”

“I don’t want to die either, you daft cow.”

“Get one of the stable boys to go with. For protection.”

“You think a stable boy could protect anyone from that?”

Sansa cleared her throat. “What is the meaning of this?”

The girls almost dropped the food as they noticed her presence. “My lady! Forgive me, it’s only Seren won’t go--”

“ _ I  _ won’t go? You go--”

“Quiet, both of you.” Sansa commanded. “Won’t go where? One of you speak. You.”

The girl twisted her free hand in her apron. “It’s the Hound,” she whispered. “We’ve heard stories, my lady, and--”

“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered under her breath. Sansa seized the tray and the wine from the maids with a heavy sigh. “I’ll take it.”

“My lady, you can’t! He’ll ravish you!”

Sansa spun on her heel and headed for the stairs. “We can only hope.” 


	2. Lemons and Bloody Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is warming up and reunites with Sansa in the bath.

It was the nicest room he’d been given in his life. Big, clean bed. A chair. A window without a draft. Someone had even put a painted screen in front of the fire so he wouldn’t have to look at it. 

It was her doing somehow, he knew it. Even the bath was hot, though he had to pull his knees up to his chin to fit into it. No one was perfect. 

She was close, though. Closer than anyone had any right to be. He’d avoided her like a coward and she’d still noticed him somehow, still took pains to see to his comfort. His perfect little bird. She was a perfect little princess now, or near enough. Wardeness of the North, now her brother had bent the knee and pledged his hand to the dragon queen. Being a warden was the highest position a lady could hold, short of being queen or the daughter of one. She had been miles above him before, but now she might as well have been the moon for how likely he was touch her. There was nothing he could do but watch her from a distance and howl. 

He had never stood a chance. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to accept. He’d teased her for her dreams of chivalrous knights and ladies because they had been his dreams, too. He’d wanted it all, once. The title, the cloak, a lady tying her favor to his arm. 

Life didn’t give two shits what anybody wanted. It had taken his face, his sister, his dreams, and when Gregor had gotten them stripped of their lands and titles, it had taken the only chance he had left of winning a lady. Not to say Clegane Keep was anything to write home about. It wouldn’t have been enough to persuade a milkmaid to ignore his face,  let alone the sister to the bloody King in the North. 

Her being within sight but further out of reach than ever was just one more great joke in a lifetime of them. He huffed. “Ha bloody ha ha ha.” 

He splashed some hot water over his head, trying to get the cold out of his ear. If it wasn’t frostbitten by now, it would be a miracle. All he needed was to lose the one he had left. 

A knock sounded on the door. Who would be visiting him at this hour? Presumably if someone had come to cut his throat, they wouldn’t bother knocking first. “What?”

The door opened a crack. “Supper, my lord. And wine.”

“Bring the wine here and keep it coming.” 

The woman entered the room with a soft step, the swish of her skirts like the beating of a bird’s wings. His back stiffened as she closed the door behind her. Why would she do that? 

A flagon of wine appeared in front of his face and he grabbed the wrist that offered it, half-pulling the woman into the tub with him. 

She didn’t scream. She sank to her knees beside him and looked him full in the face. 

Her name caught in his throat. “Sansa.”

She smiled, or something like it. She was older now, a woman grown and far more beautiful than he remembered her being. She was tall now, stronger, and her face had a gravity to it that unsettled him to his bones. Her eyes flitted over his face as if she was trying to assure herself he was real. Tully blue, they said. He didn’t know the Tullys and didn’t give two fucks about any of them; to him that color had always belonged to her. 

Like he did. 

When he spoke, his voice was raw. “What are you doing here?”

She held his gaze without flinching. “The maids were too afraid to bring your food.”

“You’re not,” he observed. “You haven’t looked away once.”

She let her gaze drift down his chest to his belly and back up again. “No. I’m not afraid.”

She damned well ought to be. If she kept looking at him like that, he’d fuck her every which way he could imagine and a fair few he couldn’t, and not the King in the North nor all the Unsullied and Dothraki hordes could stop him. Hells,  _ let them watch _ . 

He looked away first. “You should go.”

She pursed her lips. She knew he was right. 

She stood, bringing his hand with her. In his shock, he had never let her go. 

Extracting her wrist from his grasp, she took his hand in both of hers and kissed his palm. 

Dumbstruck, he let her. 

She caressed his shoulder as she went, a passing gesture that still meant the world to him. He closed his eyes at the miracle of her touch. 

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, then she was gone. 

Even after she left, the smell of her hung in the air. Lemons and bloody sunlight. 

He pulled the cork from the wine with his teeth and drank deeply. “I’ve missed you, too.”


	3. Perhaps They Could Both Die Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa decides to take her body back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, "ravished" is used a few different ways now, but I'm using it in the historical sense as another term for rape.

Sansa watched the snow fall outside her bedroom window. A brisk northerly wind tossed a flurry through the open shutters, the flakes melting as they touched her face. 

She was burning. No, she  _ was the fire. _

An old familiar heat spread like wildfire from low in her belly to the tips of her toes and the ends of her hair, turning everything between into ash. She’d known it well, years ago. Her innocence had truly ended when her girlish dreams of lithe young nights had been replaced with the vision of a man. It hadn’t made sense to her at the time--she had known he was objectively ugly, so why did she crave the sight of him, the peculiar gentleness of his touch? 

She had watched him fight more than once. The tourney for her father, Joffrey’s gods-cursed nameday. His opponent hadn’t stood a chance, and neither had she; she felt every blow, every clash of steel deep in her belly and by the time Joffrey had praised his victory, her smallclothes were in such a state she’d begun to wonder if she’d sat in spilled wine. 

_ Well-struck, indeed.  _

She had never been afraid of him. Afraid of the effect he had on her undergarments, certainly, but never him. She had watched his every move, and after she had blossomed, she’d noticed him watching her. When he’d rescued her from being ravished in the riots, she’d thought for one delirious moment he’d meant to do the job himself. Alas, he had only taken her back to her cage, and she had spent a fortnight wondering if she had imagined his attraction to her. 

That is, until she had come back to find him in her bed. 

He had held a dagger to her throat and demanded a song. Rendered dumb by desire, she could only remember the one.  _ Is that all you want? _ she’d wanted to scream.  _ Take it. Take everything.  _

She had been a good girl once, and didn’t know how to ask. 

She had wanted him then, not truly understanding what it was she wanted until it was too late. After he had gone, she’d thought of him often, particularly in the quiet hours when she was alone with no one to disturb the memory of his rasp in her ear. 

_ “You’re safe now, little bird.” _

She was, but she didn’t want to be. 

Longing was the sweetest pain she’d ever known. It was compounded by years of frustrated lust, of love denied and never replicated with anyone else. How could she hope to be happy with a hairless lordling when the Hound taken her songs, her kiss, her heart? She’d given it all to him and would have given more, but now she knew he never would have asked. 

He still wouldn’t. 

She unfastened his cloak--hers now, disguised with a little green dye--and draped it over her chair. She unfastened her dress, one buckle at a time. She had always been a good girl, a dutiful girl, but if life had taught her anything, it was that the good were used and discarded. If she wanted something, she was going to have to fight for it, and there was only one thing she wanted that was in her power to take. 

She wanted her body back. 

She tugged her dress over her head and tossed it over the chair with the cape. Her body had never belonged to her, not really. Growing up, she had known it would be a gift to her future husband to do with it as he chose. Tyrion had refused it, and Ramsey had done his best to destroy it. She had never felt like it was hers, had never given it to someone she had chosen for herself. 

It was about time that changed. 

He might send her away. Both of them knew he probably should. Still, she had seen the way he looked at her when he was in the bath, and she knew he felt it, too. 

Weeks before, Arya had told her of her adventures with the Hound. Sansa had been consumed with envy until she realized Arya didn’t see him the way she did; her sister saw him as a brother, or, gods help her, a _father_. Sansa had certainly never thought of him as family--they weren’t Lannisters, after all. 

Between overblown tales of fights up and down Westeros, Arya had mentioned he talked about her. It was almost an afterthought, she hadn’t thought Sansa would care. She said he had wept when he spoke of how he regretted that he couldn’t save her. As he lay dying, he had goaded Arya with his desire for Sansa.

_ “I should have fucked her bloody and died happy.” _

Sansa unlaced her corset. 

Perhaps they could both die happy. 

The wind howled like a ravenous beast in the night. It tore through her hair and bit her flesh, the fine lawn of her chemise no more protection against it than cobwebs on her skin. She welcomed it. She wanted to be consumed. 

Sansa tiptoed to the secret door connecting their chambers, a willing sacrifice in winter white. She raised one trembling hand and, before she could think better of it, knocked. 

She waited. 

Nothing. 

She knocked again. “Sandor?”

Nothing. 

Concerned, she pushed open the door. 

He was asleep in bed, one huge hand still clenched around the flagon of wine. The hearth’s dying embers cast him in shades of red and gold, a reminder of where his allegiances once lied. Enemy colors, though she had never seen another wear them so well. He hadn’t bothered to dress after his bath, and he was only covered by the bedclothes drawn haphazardly across his lap. 

She tried to catch her breath as she allowed herself to look. Every muscle and sinew limned in firelight, he was beautiful, terrifying. She had imagined he would look softer in his sleep, but he didn’t somehow. It wasn’t only his face that was scarred; his whole body was covered in them. Gashes, punctures, long angry slashes--he was her vision of the Warrior come to life. 

She had found him in her bed once and hadn’t known what to do with him. 

Perhaps he would have a better idea of what to do with her. 


	4. Kiss Me Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's plan to seduce Sandor does not go exactly as intended.

Sansa woke up in the dark to a slap.

“Little bird.” A rasp beckoned from the recesses of her dreams. She threw an arm over her face and tried to chase it back to her favorite place. Her sweetest dreams were filled with dogs; she had seen them tear the flesh from Ramsey’s bones a thousand and one times for the thousand and one injuries he had inflicted upon her person. This one, though—this one was her favorite.

“Fuck,” a grumbled curse. The earth seemed to shake beneath her, demanding her attention. It felt like Winterfell itself was falling down. Perhaps the dragon rumored to haunt the crypts had finally stirred and was coming to consume them all.

_Let it._

A huge hand closed around her jaw and she startled awake. The hearth only offered a faint, sputtering glow against the encroaching darkness, but she could still see the good half of Sandor Clegane’s face was pale as a wight.

“Alive,” he muttered to himself, searching her body for wounds. “What happened? Who did this to you? I’ll send for the maester--”

“Sandor,” she cut him off, confused. “What are you on about?”

His brow furrowed. “You are unharmed?”

“Quite.” She stretched with a yawn. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Every bloody day of my life.” He ran a hand over his face. Something occurred to him and he pulled his breeches on and grabbed his sword. “What trick is this? Who left you here?”

Her eyes widened at the glint of steel in his hand.

He checked the door was barred and searched the room for hidden assailants. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. “What is your brother playing at, hey? Perhaps the little wolf bitch thought she’d play a joke on the stupid old dog. Where is she?”

“Sandor!” she all but shouted. “Would you keep your voice down? No one knows I’m here.”

He glared at her as he pulled himself up to his full imposing height. “Someone knows you’re here. Someone put you in my bed, didn’t they? I would know why.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and prayed for strength. “I put myself here. I did. Would you put the sword down, please?”

He lowered it, but he didn’t let it go. “Why?”

His expression was so hostile, she started to regret her _brilliant idea_ of seducing him. “I didn’t think you’d mind. I thought you might--”

“You thought I’d what? Fuck you? Kill you?” At last, he put the sword away.

“Kiss me,” she confessed, feeling like an idiot for admitting it. “I thought you’d kiss me again.”

He stared at her hard.

She had done the impossible. She’d shocked him into silence.

“What do you mean _again_?”

Sansa balked, pride wounded. Was she really so forgettable? “The night of the Blackwater, you came into my room--”

He nodded. “Aye.”

She swallowed, courage faltering. “You asked me to go with you--”

“You refused,” he cut her off.

“I did not,” she protested. “I only said that I doubted Stannis would hurt me and you stormed off like a madman. I half expected you to come back.”

He glared at her, looking for the lie. His shoulders fell and he turned away. “Shit idea, either way. No doubt the Imp took better care of you than I ever could.” He reached for the tunic that hung over the back of the chair. The one he’d arrived in was threadbare and stained with so much blood it had looked like he’d fought the War of the Five Kings on his own. Before she had climbed into his bed, she had put it with her washing and replaced it with a new one she had made herself. He shook it out, frowning at the clean green linen. “The fuck is this…?” he muttered to himself.

She bit her lip. This wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped. “It’s quite clearly a shirt,” she replied tersely.

“Seven hells.” He dropped it into his lap and shot her a black look. “This is your room, is it? Some cunt lordling going to charge in here and try to open my neck for sleeping in your bed?”

“No--”

He ran a hand over his eyes. “How much did I drink last night?”

She let out a frustrated sigh. “You--”

He looked around the room, his guard back up. “Where is your husband?”

“He’s dead,” she snapped. “I killed him. Now will you let me goddamned finish?”

He sat back, his expression softening into something like bemusement. “As you wish, my lady.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, suppressing a smile.

He held her gaze, waiting for her to speak.

Now he was listening, she wasn’t at all sure what to say. She hadn’t expected to have to say much. “The shirt is yours.”

He shook his head. “Can’t be. Haven’t worn anything but shit for years.”

“I made it for you. Look.”

He did. It was enormous and very long. When she wore it to bed, it went past her knees. He ran his thumb over the black silk dogs she had embroidered around the collar. If he got any closer, he’d smell her on it. “Your husband is dead,” he said, almost to himself. “And Littlefinger? Is he still pulling your pretty strings?”

She shuddered. “His head is frozen on a pike above the gatehouse. Did you miss it when you came in?”

“I only saw the crows.” His gaze fell to the loose lace-trimmed neckline of her chemise. It had fallen lower as she had sat up. He tossed her the shirt. “Put that on, will you? I can’t think with you looking like that.”

He _had_ noticed. She smiled to herself and pulled the shirt over her head, ruffling her hair in the process. It was so big, it slid off of her shoulder.

He made a noise that sounded pained. “Gods, that’s even worse. Give it back.”

She laughed and pulled it off again, throwing it to him with a smile.

He caught it, but he didn’t put it on. He sat beside her on the bed, naked from the waist up, looking at her as if she was the most beautiful thing in the room.

She wasn’t.

He swallowed hard and looked away. “How did you kill him?”

“I ordered Arya to cut his throat.”

He raised his eyebrow. “You and the little wolf bitch killed Littlefinger together?”

Sansa crossed her arms. “Don’t call her that.”

“It’s affectionate,” he dismissed. “How did you kill the Bolton bastard?”

“With pleasure,” she said too quickly, but she didn’t regret it. Surely if anyone could understand the sentiment, it was Sandor Clegane. “I fed him to my dogs.”

He laughed. Unguarded and unrestrained, the sound filled the room. It was the most alarming thing he’d ever done.

She smiled, a blush warming her cheeks. It had been years since that had happened. She was amazed she was still capable of it.

“Wait,” he said as he caught his breath. “How many men have you killed?”

She didn’t answer. “Arya’s not the only one with a list.”

A smile tugged at the good side of his face. “I used to be on it,” he confided with no little pride. “Am I on yours?”

_Different list. Shorter_. Her gaze drifted past the scar on his neck to his bare chest, a patchwork of scars, muscle, and dark hair. He was so different from Ramsey he might have been another species. She had remembered him being larger than life, objectively ugly but undeniably compelling. She had always wondered at her attraction to him, but now she was a woman grown, she understood.

His hand rose to point at his heart. “It’s here,” he challenged, his voice barely above a whisper. “You must have always known it was yours to take. Take it and be done with it. Put me out of my misery. Unless you’re still afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” She knew she’d said it before, but her voice didn’t shake this time.

His gaze fell to her lips. “You should be.”

She wasn’t. She was past pain, past humiliation. He could kiss her, fuck her, tear her apart. He could cut her heart out and she’d welcome it because _she chose it_. She was past trading her body for alliances; it was time she gave it freely for no other reason than that she wanted to.

She chose _him_.

Sansa cupped the cracked flesh of his jaw, the mound of scar tissue where his ear had been smooth beneath her fingertips. He inclined his head to avoid her gaze and his hair fell across the burned side of his face. Impatient, she pushed it away and looked him full in the face without flinching. He was handsome--his greatest secret hidden in plain sight for anyone bold enough to take a good look.

_Kissed by fire,_ they said of him.

Well and good. Now he would be kissed by ice.

His face in her hands, she held his gaze as she climbed into his lap and reverently kissed his burned cheek.

He froze, but he didn’t stop her.

She kissed the place where his eyebrow had been, kissed his temple, kissed his jaw. She was not afraid.

“What in seven hells do you think you are doing?” he asked slowly, deliberately. The crack in his voice detracted from the menacing tone somewhat.

Her heart hammered in her ears, her every nerve alight and screaming. When she met his gaze again, his eyes were softer, sorrowful. Perhaps there was hope in there, too. “I came here because I wanted to,” she said. She wanted him to know she was looking at him when she said it. “I want you.”

He snorted. “You want to anger your brother.”

“Jon has nothing to do with this. No one knows I’m here.”

“Dirty secret, am I?” He scowled. “I don’t know what you want, girl, but you don’t have to fuck me to get it.”

“Will you shut up?”

He cracked a smile and looked away.

“I don’t care what anything thinks. We’ll all be dead soon, anyway.” She pulled him back to face her, deadly serious. “I’ve thought of you every day since we saw each other last. I’ve missed you, Sandor. I want you to kiss me again.”

Every trace of humor left his face. “If that’s a jest, it’s not a very good one.”

“It’s not a jest,” she insisted. “I won’t beg you, if that’s what you’re after. In spite of appearances, I have some pride.”

She moved to get up and was stopped by his hands closing over her hips.

“I never kissed you,” he said with some regret.

“You did.” She settled deeper into his lap, the coverlet soft against her bare calves. She’d been given to Ramsey in a corset and silk petticoats. Perhaps she could have done better than a linen shift for Sandor. “The night you left. You were in your cups.”

“I would have remembered something like that.” He took a long piece of her hair and looked at it as he reverently rubbed it between his fingers. “I wanted to.”

His breath was shallow and his voice was low. She had never seen him so subdued. “What’s stopping you?”

He met her gaze and she saw it.

_Fear._

“You’re afraid of _me_ ,” she said, incredulous. It had never occurred to her that she could be anything more than an irritation to him. He could overpower her easily, he had no reason to fear her unless he knew she could really hurt him. Physically, she wouldn’t stand a chance. Emotionally, she couldn’t do him any harm at all, unless—

_He loved her._

The realization hit her like a slap. “Sandor,” she sighed, his name the first prayer she’d said in some time. “I won’t hurt you.”

He opened his mouth to issue some retort and she silenced him with a kiss.

It was not like she remembered. There was nothing hard or cruel about his kiss, it was soft as silk and sweeter than lemon cakes. He kissed the way Florian kissed Jonquil, the way she’d imagined true knights kissed their ladies in the songs. His beard tickled half her face and she smiled against his lips.

Her idea of what a true knight was had changed over the years; her thoughts on how they should kiss had changed as well.

She sank her teeth into his lip.

He broke the kiss, startled.

She smiled and pushed the lace strap of her shift off her shoulder in invitation.

The next thing she knew, she was on her back, staring at the ceiling. He pinned her down with a hand around her throat, tearing her shift asunder with the other. “Is this what you think you want?” He loomed over her, his breath in her ear. “Do you know what men like me do to little girls like you?”

He was trying to scare her again, but every word just made her wetter. She squirmed beneath the oppressive weight of his massive body, wanting so badly to be fucked. She’d never enjoyed it before, but she trusted him not to hurt her. “I’d like to find out.”

She tapped on his knuckles around her throat and he let her go immediately.

She was never in any danger.

Sansa pushed him off of her onto his back and straddled his hips. It was gratifying to be in a position of power for once. She flicked the remaining strap off of her shoulder, her flesh prickling and nipples tightening in the cold as it fell lower still.

His hungry stare went some way towards warming her up. His hands slid up her ribs to cup her breasts and she shuddered with excitement. “I’ve never done this before,” she confessed.

He dropped his hands. “You’re a maiden?”

“No.” She looked for the words, frustrated. “I’ve never been…up _here_ before. I’ve never done this because I wanted to.”

“You’ve never enjoyed it,” he surmised correctly, murder in his eyes. “If there was anything left of that Bolton cunt, I’d--”

She kissed him in gratitude, her hair falling around his face. All those months with Ramsey, she’d gotten through it by fantasizing about killing him. First she’d imagined Sandor doing it, then she’d done it herself. “He’s dead. I don’t want to think about him.”

“Aye, you won’t. He’s dead and you’re mine and I’m going to fuck you until you can’t remember his face or a single thing he did to you.”

“Good.” She smiled. “Show me how?”


	5. Seven Hells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor might be dreaming, but he doesn't especially care.

Seven hells. 

One moment he’d drunk himself to sleep, convinced he’d die alone and pining for a princess, and the next Sansa bloody Stark was straddling his cock and begging him to fuck her. 

He didn’t know what they had put into his wine, but he’d be damned if he didn’t ride this dream out to its natural conclusion. He’d gut the bastard who woke him up. 

She felt real, though. She had a woman’s body now. Her skin was as soft as Dornish silk and her thighs seemed to go for miles beneath that flimsy excuse for a shift. He slid his hands over them, up, up to the wicked flare of her hips, fully expecting her to slap him. 

She didn’t. 

Her breath came fast through wine-stained lips, her breasts threatening to spill from her neckline with every little gasp. She was so wet he could feel it through the blanket. Something had excited her, and by the gods, she was looking right at  _ him _ . 

“Sandor,” she panted. He was still surprised she was here willingly, knowing it was him. “I hardly know where to begin.” 

That made two of them. 

In spite of appearances, he wasn’t inexperienced or even unpopular with women. They might not be able to look him in the face, but they didn’t have to to get what they wanted. From Fleabottom to the furthest reaches of the kingdom, he could always rely on curiosity to propel a certain number of them into his bed. He’d given them what they wanted and sent them on their way with no more complaint than a dazed expression and a bow-legged step. 

Sansa was different. 

It was love or something like it. She was the still point of the turning world--the sun, the moon, all seven gods in a single maddening woman, all seven heavens in her kiss, and all seven hells burning inside her. 

She was more than a woman. She was barely human. 

As his hands settled on the round, ripe swells of her arse, he felt the first ridges under his battered fingertips. “What the--?”

She tensed, the fire in her eyes dying before she looked away. “It’s nothing.”

He slid his fingers over what felt like a map of scars. Nothing else felt like that, and he should know. “What did he do to you?”

She flushed a nervous scarlet. “It’s nothing, please--”

He gently pushed her off of his lap and rolled her over onto her knees. Her spine went stiff as a board, a slight tremble in her shoulders. From this angle, she was miles away from the hellion who’d all but begged him to fuck her moments before. Curious, he pushed her shift up to her waist. 

He was not prepared for the sight. 

Scars covered her arse and the back of her thighs. They were so long and thin, he would have thought she’d been whipped if not for their careful placement in even, horizontal lines. The blade would have had to have been paper thin and razor sharp, and he only knew one house who’d go to that kind of trouble to inflict pain.

At least the bastard hadn’t carved his name into her. 

“I’ll kill them,” he heard himself say. “If there are any more of those Bolton fucks left, I’ll bloody gut them with a goddamned spoon.”

She gave no indication she heard him. She seemed to shrink under his inspection, reflexively bracing for some kind of pain. 

“You think I’m ugly.”

Her voice was so small and the question so daft, he almost didn’t hear her. 

Her arse was perfection made flesh--generous and heart-shaped, the cheeks met at the most beautiful little slit he’d ever seen. Engorged and red, she was so wet for him she gleamed like a bloody looking glass in the firelight. 

Still, she trembled with fear or nervous anticipation, squirming like a maiden under his gaze. 

He supposed she was, in a way. 

What kind of a man, upon receiving such a gift, could waste it? Disdain it, abuse it? 

By the old gods and the new, he wouldn’t. 

“No, girl,” he answered at last. She was the most beautiful thing he’d even seen; better than dry land after being lost at sea, better than the first drink of clean water in a week of rancid bilge. She was precious to him, a gift and a curse, but he was no poet and he couldn’t tell her that without sounding a fool. He settled for, “You have the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen.”

_ Idiot. _

Her laugh startled them both. She glanced over her shoulder at him, shooting daggers with her eyes. “Wait, how many have you seen?” 

“None like this one.” He could smell it from where he sat. She wanted him. 

_ She wanted him.  _

He wouldn’t disappoint her. He pushed her over onto her back, and she didn’t fight him. “What are you doing?” 

“I want to see your face,” he murmured against the soft swell of her belly, kissing his way over the dip between her hips to the bone above her gash. 

For all her apparent confidence, she was nervous. “Why? It’s only--” She moaned low in her throat as he pushed a finger inside her, testing her arousal. She all but gushed into his hand. If he was any harder, he’d spill into the coverlet. 

“It’s only what?” he asked, dragging his finger slowly from her sodden, quaking flesh. He plunged it back inside, deeper this time, and she bit back a scream. 

“I don’t remember,” she panted, her legs falling open for him. 

He smiled to himself. If he had his way, he’d make her forget a few more things before the night was through. 


	6. The Bear and the Maiden Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finally understands what that song is about.

She used to dream of him. 

No matter what she was doing in them, he had a way of turning up. Glaring, snapping, barking. Kissing her, killing her. She used to have a recurring dreams of her wedding night where it was him joining her in bed, and she’d wished--oh gods, how she had wished--she’d wake up and find him there beside her.

The dreams had become more vivid and detailed as the years had gone by, but never in her most illicit fantasies had she imagined what he was doing now. 

She had expected brief, brutal, painful catharsis, but Sandor had something else in mind. Half-clothed, she was splayed on the bed like an erotic inversion of the Bolton sigil while he buried his face between her legs and licked her like--well, a bit like his namesake. 

“Good dog,” she sighed. 

He bit the inside of her thigh and she shuddered. 

If he didn’t know her body as well as she did, he was trying his damndest to redress the balance. He buried his nose in her heat, rolled her flesh round his tongue like it was a boiled sweet. It was the strangest feeling, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him to stop. Much more of that and he’d lick her dry, wouldn’t he? 

Her legs trembled and her hips bucked. Her back arched and she cried out involuntarily. He grasped her hips in his huge, rough hands and redoubled his efforts with an expression of of perfect peace like the kind she’d prayed for him to have. If only she’d known she’d had the power to give it to him all along. 

It was a different song in her head now, and this one had her grinning. 

_ “She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair, _ __   
_ But he licked the honey from her hair. _ __   
_ Her hair! Her hair! _ __   
_ He licked the honey from her hair!” _ __   


Her hips jerked upward and her thighs shook. He threw her legs over his shoulders without looking up. 

“I don’t want to kill you,” she warned on a gasp. “If you keep doing that, I’ll break your neck.” As if to prove her point, her knees drew together around his ears. 

“There are worst ways to die.” He said against her skin, the vibration of his voice and the heat of his breath sending a shiver shooting down her spine. 

_ “Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air! _ _   
_ _ My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!” _

As he took her flesh between his teeth, her back arched and a pitiful cry broke from her throat. “It’s too much! Gods, it's too much…” 

He dropped it. “Tell me to stop.”

If his mouth had brought her to the brink, the sight of him between her thighs was near enough to push her over the edge. He looked up at her with a fierce, dark gaze. On his knees with his head bowed, he could have been submitting to his mistress, but she was well aware he was the one in control. 

She propped herself up on her elbows, taking a good, long look. “No.”

Sensing her change in demeanor, he sat back on his heels, licking her honey from his lips. He kissed the inside of her thigh, her calf, the arch of her foot. “Tell me what you want.” 

Seven hells, how much time did he have? She still couldn’t believe this was happening, it didn’t feel real. “I want to touch you,” she sighed. She’d wanted to for years. She wouldn’t miss her chance. 

He crawled into bed beside her and turned over onto his back. He stretched his arms behind his head, looking far more at ease than she felt. He was so obedient, she would have thought he was unaffected if not for the challenge in his eyes, the color that bled across his broad chest, and the size of his--

She blinked, not trusting her eyes. “Is...how…?”

He gave a dirty laugh at her reaction to the size of him. “Wondering if you made a mistake?”

“Wondering if it will fit,” she replied, quite breathless by the notion. Her cunt pulsed of its own accord. Whether she was more excited or terrified, she couldn’t say. Ramsey had only been a fraction of that size and yet he had caused her so much pain; surely Sandor would  _ kill _ her. 

_ I chose this, _ she reminded herself.  _ He won’t hurt me. _

“Show me how to please you?” she asked with more courage than she felt. 

He shook his head. “No, girl. Tonight’s about pleasing you. Do what you will with me. I won’t bite unless you tell me to.”

As she reclined beside him, she was trembling. She had wanted this so long, she hardly knew where to start. In her dreams, he had fucked her hard--was there any other way? He’d held her in bed, kept her safe from harm, and kissed her tears away. 

Now he was here, he was not quite what she had imagined, but somehow more. She traced a scar that cut from his shoulder to one flat, brown nipple, following the line of pale skin where the hair had never grown back. The whole side of his neck was covered in a newer one, it was pink and ridged like his face, but less severe. 

He followed her gaze with his own, his dark eyes oddly vulnerable. 

She rested her hand over his heart, feeling the slight rise and fall of his chest. “Beautiful,” she said. 

For a moment, she thought he might weep, but then he broke the silence with a startled laugh. “You might have mentioned you’d gone blind.”

“I’m seeing you clearly for the first time.” She rested her face beside her hand, the hair on his chest soft beneath her cheek. He had a smell all his own. She used to catch it when he’d carry her, and she never thought she’d get to smell it again. It was a warm, masculine smell, like woodsmoke and sweat. When she had heard he’d died, he’d taken her hope with him. She closed her eyes and listened to his heart beat. “I thought you were dead.” 

He wrapped his arm around her back and she settled into his shoulder. “Did you weep for me?” he kidded.

“Every day,” she replied, deadly serious. 

He stiffened. “Why?”

Her fingertips drifted toward his navel. There was so very much of him, it took her some time to get there.  His waist was as thick and hard as the rest of him, lean with muscle. A line of hair bisected his belly and led to his cock, swollen and almost violet in the dying firelight. Her voice trembled as she said, “You must know how I feel about you.” 

He stared at her. 

She smiled self-consciously. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say it,” he demanded, a hint of beg in his voice. 

She took a deep breath. Now was not the time to be timid. “I’ve loved you since I was a girl.” 

He looked at her with no little shock, then gasped as she boldly gripped his cock. It was heavy as a mace and so thick she couldn’t get her hand all the way around it. 

“Don’t be cruel, Little Bird,” he admonished her through his teeth.

“Never.” She kissed the scar on his shoulder and worked her way down his chest to his belly. “I used to pretend you were my husband,” she confessed. “You probably think that’s stupid.”

He shivered in obvious pleasure. “It’s nonsense, is what it is. Why would you?”

She straddled his thighs, looking her fill at the most frightening part of him. “I knew no one would hurt me if I was yours. You were the only person I trusted. In many ways, you still are.”

His expression was puzzled. He wasn’t sure what to do with that. “And if I was your husband? What would you do?”

Her shoulders fell. “Likely endure beatings, mend your clothes, and wait for you to put a baby in me.”

He sat bolt upright and took her shoulders in his hands. “I would never raise a hand to you. Never, do you understand?” 

She bit her lip. “Ramsey said all husbands--”

“Fuck that dickless shit, he doesn’t deserve a second thought.” He held her face, looking into her eyes with an intensity that frightened her. “I bloody worship you. If you were mine, I’d never beat you. I’d do anything to keep you satisfied. If anyone tried to hurt you, I’d kill them.”

She liked the sound of that. She blushed. It was so much like what he’d pledged to her years before, but now she understood what he meant. “I’ve always been yours.” 

He closed the distance between them, years of desperation and frustrated desire in his kiss. Tears stained her cheeks; there was no telling whether they were hers or his. He cared for her. She’d always thought so, but it was another thing altogether to hear him say it, a whispered confession in the dark. 

She had never really been kissed before. Yes, once or twice by dead men better forgotten, but never like this, never out of love or real desire. If she had doubted his words, she could not have mistaken his feelings through that kiss. 

She broke it reluctantly to take a breath. “What would you do?” she whispered. “What would you do to me if I was your wife?”

His eyes darkened with desire. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible.” She shook her head. “I am yours and you are mine.”

His cheek dimpled with a self-conscious smile. “I am yours, but I could only ever be your dog.”

She groaned in frustration. “What does that make me to you?”

“My mistress,” he said against her throat. “My queen. My everything. My Little Bird.”

Sansa smiled as he buried his face between her breasts. “Very well. What would you do to me if I was your mistress?”

“Anything you asked.” He closed a hand over one breast and took the other in his mouth. 

She trembled, so wet now she could feel it on his thigh. “Fuck me, Sandor. I want it to feel good.”

He pinned her to the bed, his breath in her ear. “As my lady commands.”

 


	7. What Dogs Do To Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

He loomed over her, so big and fierce and strong, she felt as small and fragile as a china doll, younger than her years and more frightened than a maiden on her wedding night. It was like that dream she’d had of him, but deliciously, overwhelmingly, terrifyingly real. 

_This is really happening._

She was finally getting what she wanted, but beginning to understand she didn’t really know what all that would entail. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. She was scared, but her body seemed to know what to do. Her legs fell open to accommodate him, her cunt aching to be filled. 

He kissed her throat. “Tell me to stop.”

She ran her hands over the taut muscles of his shoulders to his broad back. “No.”

He lowered himself over her, watching her face for second thoughts. She jolted as she felt him position the head of his cock at her entrance. 

“Tell me to stop.” 

She buried her fingers in his hair and gave him a feverish kiss. “Never.”

He pushed into her slowly, letting her adjust to his girth. Her legs opened wider still, testing the joints of her hips. It wasn’t pain she was feeling, but an intense pressure as he fought to fit inside. Just when she thought there couldn’t be any more of him, he pulled out slightly and thrust in even deeper. She cried out, clenching around him hard. 

“Fucking hell, you’re tight.” He sounded pained. “Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t hurt. Don’t stop.” 

“Relax,” he rasped into her ear. “Wrap your legs around my arse.”

She did as he asked with some difficulty, and was rewarded as he glided in deeper still. “I can take it,” she whispered desperately. “I won’t break.” 

He did as she asked and she screamed as he thrust home, burying himself to the hilt inside her. 

_ Finally _ , her blood sang.  _ Finally. _

He held her there and kissed her, giving them both a moment to adjust to the exquisite pain of being joined together at long last. He surrounded her, invaded her; he filled her mind, her mouth, her heart, her cunt. She wanted to give it to him, give him all that she was. She had chosen this, and felt more than gratified to be chosen by him. 

She was his and always had been. 

He belonged there. He was home. 

“Sansa,” he gasped into her hair. 

She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his face. All she could hear was the sound of his breath. When he increased his pace. it was all she could do to hang on. 

It got easier. She was so thoroughly pinned, she couldn’t move her hips at all, but her cunt clenched around him as he pounded into her. The pressure was so intense, it was almost too much to bear. It was the first time and she held him like it was the last, inhaling his scent and tasting the sweat on his skin. She was insensible now, driven by blind need, hungry for something she couldn’t name. 

“Sandor,” she moaned. “Please…”

“Tell me to stop.” 

“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Please, don’t stop.” 

This might be their only night together and death would surely come, but for now, they had this--it was an expression of perfect love and an act of pure rebellion against the encroaching darkness. They might not have much time left, but she’d be damned if she didn’t spend it exactly as she wanted. Arya's god of death might be coming, but he could fuck himself. 

Just in case this was the last time in truth, she had one more request. “Turn me over.” 

He slowed, confused. “What?”

“Turn me over,” she repeated. “Show me what dogs do to wolves.”

She didn’t have to ask him again. In one fluid movement, he pushed her over onto her knees, grabbed her hips, and buried himself inside her. She cried out in joy. So many times, she had been used this way, but this was different. There was no pain at all, only blinding pleasure and ecstatic relief. 

“Yes,” she sighed. “Gods, yes.”

Her vision went red as her world came apart at the seams. Stitch by stitch, she came undone, until all that was left was love and bottomless, insatiable lust. 

Her climax tore through her with an intensity that shocked her. She bit the pillow to stifle her scream. He was so deep he felt like he’d made it clear into her belly as he came with a growl and a pulse of hot seed. 

The feeling was so immense, she burst into tears. 

_ Finally, _ her blood sang.  _ Finally.  _

He collapsed beside her and pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, limp as a rag doll against his chest. She could feel his heart beating wildly against her back. “Little Bird,” he sighed into her ear. “What have you done to me?”

In the distance, she thought she heard a noise, but she was past caring. The doors were still closed and it was far too late for anyone to be creeping around. 

She ignored it. 


	8. I'd Rather Go Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya puts a name back on her list.

Arya didn’t have to see to find her way out. Cheeks burning, she ran like she was on fire until she escaped into the courtyard below. She gasped for breath, filling her lungs to bursting with the frigid night air.

It wasn’t enough. Every time she closed her eyes, she could still see them together.

She hurled the bucket into the well, shattering the ice at the bottom. The rhythmic squeak of the pulley was altogether too close to the creaking of Sansa’s bed, the wood straining with his weight, the headboard smacking into the wall.

_BANG. BANG. BANG._

_“Sandor...don’t stop…please, don’t stop…SANDOR!”_

“ARGH!” Arya ripped the bucket out of the well and plunged her face directly into it. Her eyes felt like they froze as she opened them under water, but she could still see the Hound bollocks deep in her sister. Soap might do it, or perhaps pure lye? “I wish I was blind again!”

“What do you mean _again_?”

She looked up and the water droplets started to crystalize on her skin. Gendry clutched a huge bear pelt around his shoulders, clearly shivering as he frowned down at her. Now that was a much better sight. Perhaps if she waited around the forge, she could fill her eyes with his half-naked body instead of the Hound.

Arya cringed. She could have lived without knowing what he looked like naked. “I just saw something horrible and I can’t unsee it.”

“How horrible?” His teeth chattered. “Like Tickler horrible, or Hot Pie trying to take a stealthy piss?”

She almost smiled. “I _wish_ it was only rats eating my insides.”

His eyes widened. “Worse than that?”

She groaned. “I once choked a man with his own eyeballs. This is worse.”

Gendry gave a low whistle. “Can you tell me about it by the fire? My bollocks are turning to snowballs out here.”

“Do _not_ mention bollocks to me right now!” She squirmed, covering her face with her hands. “What are you doing up, anyway?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Too bloody cold.” He looked up at the sound of crunching snow behind them. “Shit, someone’s coming.”

From his heavy footfalls, Arya knew exactly who was coming. He had an uneven step now. She packed a quick snowball and lobbed it at his head as he emerged from the keep. It exploded as it hit him above his left eye.

“What are you doing?” Gendry spat, clearly thinking she’d lost her mind.

“He knows what he did.” She threw another one at close range. “You’re back on my list, sisterfucker!”

Sandor—ugh, too soon— _the Hound_ came for her with a dark expression. “You shut your mouth. You want everyone to know?”

“They already do! She shouted down the bloody keep!” She ran for him full-tilt, plowing her shoulder into his gut. He didn’t so much as budge on impact, but picked her up by her collar and carried her into forge like he was carrying a puppy by the scruff of its neck. She lashed out and threw her knuckles into his armpit as hard as she could.

He grunted, but he didn’t drop her.

Gendry followed them in and sat beside the fire, watching with rapt attention.

“You want to hurt me, girl?” the Hound asked evenly, bored. “Do it, but you leave your sister out of it.” He tossed her into the workshop and spread his arms to give her an easy shot.

It was all so condescending. Didn’t he know she was dangerous?

She kicked him in the shin and was gratified when he winced. “How _could_ you?”

“She asked me to.”

Whatever she’d been expecting him to say, that wasn’t it. She sputtered. “That’s a load of toss! Sansa likes pretty boys like Joffrey and Ser Loras, and you—you’re--” She gestured at him to indicate his general Sandor-ness. “—you!”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. He looked older than when she’d seen him last, which only made him about a million years too old for her sister. “You might not know Sansa as well as you think you do.”

“And you do?” she snapped.

He spread his arms wide as if it was self-evident. He had the decency not to smile, but he didn’t look half smug about it.

She wanted to kick him again. “At least you’ve put some clothes on. If I see your arse again before I die, it’ll be too goddamned soon!”

“Wait. _Wait_ ,” Gendry interjected, gaping. “You walked in on him in bed with your sister?”

“Keep up! What I want to know is _why_.” She punctuated this with a sharp finger to Sandor’s ribs.

Gendry laughed. “Sometimes, when a boy and girl love each other very much--”

“SHUT UP!” Arya and Sandor snapped at the same time.

Clearly irritated, Sandor asked Gendry, “Why are _you_ here?”

Gendry shrugged, his grip on the pelt loosening as he warmed up beside the fire. “Back up?”

They stared at him.

“She won’t do anything.” Sandor met her gaze, and he just looked tired. “If you were going to try to kill me again, you’d have done it when you found us, but you knew she wanted it. How long were you there?”

_Only my entire life_. She’d gone running the first time Sansa screamed, and by the time she’d figured out where it was coming from and got to the keyhole in Sansa’s empty room, her sister was on her knees and shouting her head off. She had only ever seen Sansa composed, so she’d had to look for a minute to make sure it was actually her.

_“Yes! Gods, yes!”_

Arya crossed her arms, blushing again. “Long enough.”

He lowered his voice. “Did you see her sneak into my room? Gods know, I didn’t. Did you see me refuse when she asked?”

“But you didn’t refuse!” Arya snapped. “I _saw_ you--”

“Your sister can be very persuasive.”

“You’re the worst!” She punched him in the gut and he let her.

His sigh was half-groan. He was probably itching to get back into bed. Arya’s hands balled into fists, ready to hit him again. If only she could reach his stupid smug face.

“Listen to me, girl. There’s history here you don’t know about. Ask her if you must, but don’t wake her up. She’s going to be tired tomorrow.”

Arya’s jaw clenched. “I hate you.”

He almost smiled. She saw it. “No, you don’t.”  

She didn’t. She’d wanted to, but he hadn’t made it easy. In spite of her best intentions and the hundred and one things wrong with him, she liked him.

Not as much as Sansa, obviously.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Heard you running away. You move like a bloody cat.”

She shrugged, self-conscious. She’d been so rattled that stealth was the last thing on her mind as she fled. “Why’d you come down?”

“Had to make sure you wouldn’t do something stupid like wake up the castle.”

She shifted, uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t do that…”

He stared at her.

Worn out from her rage, Arya sat down on the anvil. “Why didn’t you come to see me earlier?” she asked, hating how pathetic she sounded. “You’re _my_ friend, and you didn’t even say hello.”

He raised his eyebrow. “We’re friends, are we? That what you call leaving me on a gods-cursed mountain to die?”

Perhaps he had a point. She looked away. “I _didn’t_ kill you…”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said, cheerful. “I never would have gotten to fuck your sister.” He shook his head and turned back toward the keep with a laugh.

“ARGH!” Arya chased him into the courtyard and lobbed another snowball at the back of his head.


	9. Something Suspiciously Like Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has second thoughts. Sansa has more of the same one.

Sandor shuffled through gloomy halls, the morning so cold even the snow in his hair didn’t melt. The castle was quiet with a few exceptions. Servants scurried toward the kitchens like rats, yawning behind their hands as they rushed to start the day’s bread. 

They were attempting to feed hundreds out of Winterfell’s kitchens; how long could the supplies last? As the flour dwindled, it would be replaced with ground acorns, bone meal, and ash.

Then again, perhaps grain was easier to come by without Littlefinger fixing the prices.

He rubbed his hands together, his throat freezing a little more with every breath. If he had any sense, he’d toss Sansa over his shoulder and sail clear to the Summer Isles. Hell, if he had any sense, he never would have gone north in the first place.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

A pair of serving girls caught sight of him as he turned the corner near the great hall. They didn’t scream, but they fled so quickly they appeared to fly, their brown cloaks fluttering behind them like sparrows’ wings.

A round of unhinged laughter startled him and as he drew closer to the hall’s entrance, he heard half a dozen men or more drinking themselves into a stupor.

He knew the strategy well. There was nothing like wine to mask fear.

As for him, his wine was wearing off. With that familiar numbness between the eyes that heralded a hangover came a new sense of unease that only grew as he approached the stairs to the family’s rooms above. He couldn’t shake the wrongness of it all. He was no lord, no ser. What right did he have to a room of his own? At best, he was a disgraced younger brother of a cursed minor house; he should be camped out on a pallet on the floor of the hall with the rest of the men.

Instead, he was returning to the clean featherbed where he’d left the Wardeness of the North.

He pinched the bridge of his nose to fight the migraine taking root. For all he’d teased Arya about it, he knew better than she did how bady he’d fucked up. He shouldn’t have touched Sansa, shouldn’t have even _looked_ at her, but when she’d climbed into his lap and asked him to _make it feel good_ , there was no force in this world that could have stopped him trying.

Perhaps it would be Jon who’d remove his head, or more likely, Brienne of fucking Tarth.

Worse than that, Sansa would regret it.

Perhaps she already did.

There was a glow beneath the door at the end of the hall. Inside, several people were discussing something in low voices. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he recognized Jon’s northern drawl.

Tyrion was in there, as well. He didn’t have to catch a single word to know the Imp’s condescending cadence. Would it change if he knew the Hound had fucked his one-time wife? The smallest man in the kingdom cuckolded by the largest? Sandor could hear the songs now, and took no pride in them. He took greater care with his steps. All he needed was for the lot of them to catch him sneaking into bed with Sansa; they'd end him before the minstrels' songs ended her.

Their adjoined rooms were at the other end of the hall. Having left his door barred, he went through hers.

Sansa’s room was empty, almost totally devoid of personal effects. There was a sewing basket on the table as well as pieces of unfinished cloth, their ragged edges neatly folded and pinned. Her room in the Red Keep had been full of dolls, favors, and girlish trinkets, but this one was so sparse it offered no hints as to the woman she had become. As ever, she was a mystery to him.

He paused with his hand on the door. Would she want his company again? She’d used his cock to exorcise some demons and as far as he knew, she was done with him now.

_Beautiful,_ she’d said, and she’d been looking right at him. _I’ve loved you since I was a girl._

His heart swelled with something suspiciously like hope. He didn’t like it. Hope was for fools. He’d never thought himself a fool, but by the gods, she was making him hers.

It didn’t matter, not really. He couldn’t stay away from her if he tried.

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges and he ducked through the doorway as quietly as his chainmaille would allow. Dawn crouched just below the horizon, casting the room in an eerie blue light. It was night still, but it wouldn’t be much longer.

Would Sansa have come to him if she didn’t think it was their last night on earth? It might be his, but he’d do everything in his power to ensure it wasn’t hers. He’d told her he’d die for her once, and it wasn’t an empty promise.

What would she think of tonight, when it was just an unfortunate memory? How would she remember him?

Perhaps he was an amusement, a distraction, or just a means to an end, but at least he’d been a bloody good lay.

Sansa slept peacefully, the plush furs scattered around her, over her. She was like a queen in ermine, but wilder somehow. Yards of auburn hair were tangled around her, flame bright even in the darkness. How often had he looked for it in crowds, knowing full well she was nowhere near?

One long leg was thrown over the covers; his gaze followed the languid curve of her snow white skin to her naked hip. She had a woman’s hips now. A woman’s body, a woman’s mind. She had come so far from the naive maiden he’d once known, it was only his heart that fully recognized her.

Much good that did either of them.

 

Sansa woke up with the feeling she was being watched.

She knew it well and she loathed it. Groping beneath the pillow for the dagger she’d hidden there, she felt nothing but bed. Ramsey had found it, she knew it, and now he would find some new way to punish her for her transgression. She should have stabbed him in the eye when she had the chance.

At last, her hand closed over the cold steel of an unfamiliar hilt. She gripped it and ran the pad of her thumb over a raised design on the side. It felt like an animal, and there were three of them.

Three dogs.

She startled awake as she remembered where she was.

The fire had died and she was naked, covered only by half a dozen furs piled around her. The pillow smelled like him--woodsmoke, sweat, and the balsam and cedar in his soap. She let go of the dagger and stretched happily, languid in spite of the delicious ache in her thighs.

“Do you mean to kill me, girl?” his voice was as soft and low as a lullaby telling her terrible things. “I see you’ve found my dagger.”

She smiled wickedly to herself in the dark. “This is barely a knife. Your dagger’s much bigger.”

He snorted. “Never took you for making tavern jokes.”  

She turned to face him. He stood in the doorway like a particularly tall, menacing shadow. What light there was cast his armor in a dull glow, more soot than silver. Her heart kicked against her ribs in panic at the sight, so much like when he’d been sent to bring her to Joffrey.

Things were different now, she knew. Joffrey was dead and Sandor was free.

One wouldn’t know that by looking at him, though. There was a heaviness to his expression, a kind of miserable resignation somehow worse than he’d worn before. She didn’t like the look of it.

“I suppose you never took me for a great many things.” She bit her lip, considering her words. “I’m a woman now--”

He cleared his throat. “I noticed.”

Perhaps he needed reminding again. She sat up, letting the fur drop to her waist. His gaze followed it down before he forced himself to look away from her bare breasts. “I’m a woman now,” she repeated softly. “I’m a widow. I’m scarred. I’m a killer, like you.”

“Not like me,” he dismissed. “If you only knew the things I’d done, the things I would do for you--” He shook his head, his hair falling across the scarred side of his face. “You’ll never be like me. I won’t allow it.” He turned to go.

Was he leaving her already? He’d only just arrived. She needed time to get used to the new lines in his face, to memorize his scars. She craved his kiss, his smell, the sound of his voice. She had told him her secrets and he’d made love to her.

Her heart sank beneath the weight of years of unshed tears. _Don’t you know you’re mine?_

“Sandor,” she called, more than a hint of beg in her voice.

He stopped, but he did not turn.

“Don’t leave me.” She hated how pathetic she sounded, but there was nothing for it. She was tired of playing games.

“I should never have come.”

The tears rose to her throat and she swallowed. “You regret...what we did.”

He turned to her, caught somewhere between frustration and anger. “I’ll never regret it, but you should.”

“Why?” she demanded, impatient.

He let out a long breath. “Don’t play dumb with me. You know what can happen. What do you think they’ll say if they find out? You think because your brother’s a bastard he’ll welcome another one? They’ll gut me fast enough. You--do you know what they’ll call _you_?”

Sansa stiffened. He was talking to her like she was a child, but she wasn’t anymore. She knew her own mind, and nothing he could say would lead her to regret a decision that was years in the making. She met his gaze with a steely stare. “They will call me _my lady_.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Fortunately, he didn’t seem inclined to try.

“Sit down.” she commanded softly.

He huffed, but he obeyed, slinking to the chair beneath the window. He sank into it as far as his armor would allow, his chainmaille scraping the wood. “If you want to get any sense out of me, you’d better put something on.”

She flung off another fur, leaving her completely exposed and just outside of arm’s length. He groaned low in his throat.

“I’ve been called many things. Traitor’s daughter. Murderer. Whore.” Her jaw tightened at the memory. “If they are to give me another name, then by the gods, let it be one I’ve earned.”

He raised a weary eyebrow. “With me? The jokes write themselves.”

She began to relax. He was only worried about her reputation. Odd, he’d never seemed to care about his. Dragging a sleep-warmed fur around her shoulders, she climbed onto his lap. His armor felt like ice on her breasts and the inside of her thighs. He didn’t make a sound, and she realized he was holding his breath.

She kissed his ear. “Who would dare speak them with you at my side?”

He jolted backward and she thought for a moment he meant to push her away. “Is that what this is about? You want another shield?”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I want you.”

He snorted and looked away. “You had me.”

Idiot. He was a beautiful, stubborn idiot. She took his face in her hands and at last he met her gaze. “Sandor. I want you. By my side, in my bed. For a night, a week, or as long as we have left. I want you for my own.”

He searched her eyes for the lie, but found none. “Little Bird, I--” He shook his head. “I’d kill for you. I’d die for you. I’d do anything you asked--”

She kissed him into silence. “I want you to live for me.”

His gaze was soft and oddly vulnerable. From here, she could almost glimpse all the him he’d learned to hide. “Don’t ask me that. Don’t feed me your pretty words like I could be your man. It’s cruel, is what it is. Find someone else to be your fool.”


	10. Ten Kinds of Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa can be very persuasive. 
> 
> Merry Christmas

As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

So the pretty little bird thought she could use her pretty little words to make him forget himself, did she? Forget his place, his face, the things he’d done? She was a woman grown, aye, but he had a fair few years on her and he knew a thing or two about women who played dirty. He’d been stupid enough to believe she’d wanted to fuck him, but nothing in heaven or earth could persuade him to believe she’d want him for her man. She’d overplayed her hand and now he didn’t believe a thing she’d said or a sound she’d made. There were no pure-hearted ladies any more than were true knights. He’d thought he found one, but she was just as bad as all the rest.

He turned his face toward the fire, instinctively seeking something less threatening to look it, but it had burned out. He stared at the ashes instead.

Her fingertips reached his jaw and gently guided his face back to hers. He felt her doing it and he let her.

“I don’t want anyone else.” Her gaze was blue as the sea, blue as those cold, quiet moments before the dawn. It was soft as anything, and startlingly guileless. If she was lying, she’d fooled herself, too.

By the gods, he wanted to believe her. He’d never wanted anything more in his life than he wanted to believe her now. Breathless and beautiful, she was naked with her legs wrapped around his waist. She’d dropped the fur at some point, but he hadn’t noticed it go. He hadn’t noticed the fire going out, the sun coming up, and if she kept looking at him like that, he wouldn’t notice a knife in his back, either.

Perhaps she’d be the one to wield it.

“You’ve had your fun.” He wrapped his hands around her hips to move her from his lap, but once he felt the long lines carved into her soft skin, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. After what she’d suffered, she had given herself to him and that meant something.

Perhaps she did care for him...or perhaps she was just beyond caring.

She didn’t move her fingers from his face. Didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. She kissed his cheekbone just below his bad eye with all the reverence of the Mother bestowing her mercy on the afflicted. It felt like a blessing, a gift, and he let her do it. His heart was heavy and his throat closed with the threat of tears. Again, he was that little boy who’d wanted nothing more than to be a knight. He’d wanted the cloak and a lady to wrap it around, and she made him want it again. He’d spent his years killing that dream and she brought it back to life with a few words and a kiss.

He wanted to believe her.

He knew better.

She ran her hands over his shoulders and down the battered armor that covered his chest. He was glad he’d put it on now; anything that kept her from touching any more of him was a good thing. She looked down at it with a little smirk, as though she knew if she wanted it off again, all she had to do was ask. “Where did you go?” she asked softly, ignoring his rejection.

 _Sisterfucker._ His hair was still wet from Arya’s snowball. “I thought I heard a cat.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You had to put all this on to chase a cat?”

“It’s only leather and maille. It’s no more trouble than putting on a tunic.” His gaze involuntarily darted lower as if to remind himself she was wearing significantly less. “I don’t know this place or your men. Any one of them might try to run me through and I won’t make it easy for them.”

She pursed her lips. “Is your guard always up, Sandor?”

Why did she have to say his name like that? No one used it. Hells, few likely knew for certain what it was. She sighed it like a secret wish, and savored it like it was stolen. He’d never liked it himself until he’d heard her say it. “You know it is, Little Bird.”

“No one here will hurt you,” she pledged. She clearly believed it, and he wished he could.

“You don’t know that. As far as half of them know, I’m still the enemy. They might try to bring you my head as a gift.”

She paled. Clearly she hadn’t considered that. “I’ll tell them.”

“Tell them what?” He huffed. “Tell them the Lannisters' dog is a traitor, so everything’s fine? If there’s one thing men like less than the enemy, it’s a traitor. It doesn’t matter which queen I fight for now, they’ll never trust me.”

“I trust you,” she said, desperation creeping into her voice. “They’ll trust you, too, when--”

“When, what? If they find out I’ve bedded you, that will only convince them I’m a threat. They’ll not trust you, either. You want to keep your men in line, you’ll banish me to sleep in the hall and pretend we’ve never met. You’ll send me out with the others to die and marry a lordling before anyone thinks to question your honor or your loyalty.”

She swallowed and looked away. She knew he was right. She would see sense and send him out to his death with a sweet memory and the taste of her still on his tongue. She opened her mouth to dismiss him for good and said--

“No.”

He blinked, not understanding. “What do you mean, _no_?”

She met his gaze with a look of steely determination. “My men will listen to me because I am their lady. I will not deny my feelings for you, and if another _cunt lordling_ touches me again, I’ll have his hand.”

By the seven, she meant it. The blushing maiden he’d known in King’s Landing had grown into a queen and gods help him, he _liked_ it.

He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “What feelings?”

Her eyebrows drew together with frustration. “Have you heard a word I said?”

His hands tightened around her hips. “Say it again.”

She sunk further into his lap, folding her arms around his neck. The tip of her nose touched his and he was taken aback by the peculiar intimacy of sharing her breath. “I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “Look at me.”

She looked up at him with those eyes, bright as day, true as steel.

“This is all we have,” she said like it was a fact, and shed no tears for it. “Don’t speak to me of politics and alliances. We both know we’re unlikely to survive this. Whether I have one night left or a thousand, I would spend them with you.”

He believed her. He was ten kinds of fool, but he did. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” he rasped, surrendering himself to her mercy. “I’m yours to command.”


	11. Now You've Done It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa puts her money where her mouth is.

He wouldn’t touch her unless she told him to.

He wanted to. He wanted to so badly, his hands shook on her hips. She had given herself to him freely, and he still looked as guilty as a green boy as he stole a glance at her breasts. So many men had tried to own her, had thought her theirs based on nothing more than their own desire, but Sandor assumed nothing. She had chosen him, but he was still looking at her like she was a dessert meant for someone else.

“I’m cold,” she whispered. The fire was out and she could see her breath. His maille was like ice on her skin and her nipples were so tight they were painful. The only warm part of her body was the flesh beneath his hands.

He frowned. “Are you asking me to build you a fire?”

She shook her head slowly. For a clever man, he could be awfully slow. She took his hands in hers and guided them up to cover her breasts. She sighed in relief.

The pain in his eyes was so intense it bordered on outrage. His cock was hard as a lance under her arse. She swiveled until she straddled it properly and grinned at his sharp intake of breath.

“What do you want?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. Joffrey and Ramsey wanted to humiliate and torture; Petyr had wanted to influence and possess. Sandor had tried to use his reputation as a brute to frighten her more than once, but what if there was some truth to it, after all?

“Little Bird,” he sighed, and she thought she heard a hint of that tremor in his voice. “Don’t ask me that.”

She tucked a long piece of hair behind her ear and bent to kiss him. His mouth was as warm as his hands. He shook like a leaf, and she was shaking, too. She had thought of this for so long; now that it was happening, it didn’t feel real. There was still a strangeness to his kiss; they were still figuring out how they fit together. Her dreams were never half as awkward as this. She attempted levity. “Whatever it is, I’ve heard worse.”

His back stiffened and he turned away.

Had she offended him? “Sandor?”

He raised a finger to his lips, his eyes focused on some indeterminate point in the distance. He was listening for something.

She held her breath, suddenly afraid. Who could be sneaking around at this hour?

Other than her, of course.

Finally, she heard it. Long, even strides ate up the hallway, each step accompanied by the slink of fine maille. Brienne wasn’t running, but she was in a hurry. A knock sounded on her bedroom door. “Lady Sansa?”

Sansa all but leaped from Sandor’s lap and searched the room for her dress. Tangled in the bed clothes was her torn shift, but she could hardly answer the door wearing that. She held it up and frowned at the frayed rip down the center. It looked like she’d been mauled.

Well, close enough.

“My dress,” she muttered to herself. “I wasn’t wearing one.” She would just have to find another. She darted for the adjoining room, but paused with her hand on the knob as she heard Brienne pacing around inside. She had to tell Brienne she was all right, but she couldn't answer Sandor’s door in the nude.

The decision was made for her when Brienne left the empty room and frantically knocked on Sandor’s door. “Dress yourself,” he said softly. “You had a nightmare.”

Sansa stared at his back as he headed to the door. The lie had come so easily; he didn’t doubt for a moment that she would want to hide their encounter. His earlier words echoed in her head.

_Dirty secret, am I?_

He had been for years. In spite of her words of love, he still would be unless she was willing to claim him publicly. He deserved better than to be hidden or ignored. They were a ways away from her naming him consort, but perhaps telling Brienne of Tarth would be a good start. Sansa searched for his tunic only to realize he was wearing it. At a loss, she wrapped herself up in the largest fur.

Sandor opened the door a crack and glared at Brienne on the other side.

Brienne looked him evenly in the eyes. She didn’t flinch, either. “Mutt.”

“Bitch,” he greeted, not unpleasantly.

Brienne heaved a weary sigh. “Lady Sansa’s not in her room. Have you heard anything?”

He paused, considering his answer. He glanced over his shoulder to see if she’d dressed and his eyes widened as he noticed the fur. He immediately started to shut the door, but Sansa ducked under his arm, clutching the fur around her breasts.

She had never seen Brienne’s eyes so wide. Vast and empty as a clear blue sky, she stared at Sansa, comprehension just outside her grasp.

Finally, it clicked.

“You--!” Brienne pulled her sword and advanced on Sandor, forcing them both back into the room.

“Brienne, please--” Sansa closed the door after her, knowing full well they would wake up the castle, but wanting to delay it as long as possible. “Put down your sword. Sandor is--”

Sandor’s sword was within reach, but he left it on the table and threw up his hands to show he was unarmed. “If you want another go, let’s take this outside. I’ll not let you hurt the girl trying to get at me.”

Brienne balked. “ _Me?_ I’ll kill you where you stand, you miserable cur. Lady Sansa, get behind me. I’ll not let this scoundrel lay another hand on you--”

“Brienne!” Sansa threw herself between the end of Brienne’s sword and Sandor’s chest. “Stop this immediately.”

Unwilling to allow her to shield him, Sandor wrapped his arms around her and set her a safe distance from Brienne’s wrath. This action only served to confuse the woman further. “My lady, I swore to protect you. If he ravished you--”

“He didn’t,” Sansa insisted. “I ravished him.”

Brienne reluctantly lowered her sword. She looked from Sansa to Sandor and back again, noting the embroidered dogs at his collar and the torn shift on the bed. Her lip curled in disgust, but she managed to suppress it. She sheathed the sword. “Why?”

Sandor huffed. “You’re no prize yourself.”

Brienne took exception to that. She looked down her nose at him, imperious. “I have nothing to prove to you, dog.”

“That’s a nice sword.” He nodded to it, still clenched in her fist. “A man gives you a sword and you think you’re his lady love? Jaime Lannister fucks his sister, so that bar’s set awfully low.”

Brienne punched him squarely in the jaw with a metallic crunch.

He shrugged it off. “I deserved that.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Sansa seethed. “Sandor, stop antagonizing Brienne--”

“ _Sandor?_ ” Brienne repeated, looking decidedly nauseous.

“Brienne.” Sansa approached her sworn shield and gently rested her hand on her arm as she might have for her sister...if her sister was _normal_ , that is. She sighed. “I know this is confusing to you, but I am not in danger. I came here of my volition. Sandor is my lover.”

Brienne physically recoiled.

Sandor just shook his head. “Now you’ve done it.”

Both of them watched her like she’d lost her mind and they were afraid of what she would do next. Sansa cleared her throat, beginning to feel a fool wearing nothing but the fur. “What did you need, Brienne?”

She started. She had clearly forgotten her errand in all the excitement of discovering Sansa was mad. “It’s His Grace. He would like to speak with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the delay on this chapter. My life has basically imploded this month. Have been working on the greater plot to this (a plot! Yes, really!) and realized that in order to finish it, I'm going to have to come up with my own ending for ASOIAF. No pressure, right? Well, I've got one, but it might take us a while to get there! More Arya and Gendry coming up soon, too. Thank you for sticking with me, I'm thrilled silly that you're enjoying this. Come find me on Tumblr if you want to, just started a new account as northcountrygirlfic. Would love to hear from you xx


	12. The Game of Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking with Gendry, Arya teaches him a new game.

_Thwack. Thwack._

Arya grabbed one knife after another, whipping them into the same post beyond the forge. Her aim wasn’t perfect, but it would still be good enough to take out a man’s eye at twenty paces.

_Thwack._

“Do you mind awfully not making more work for me?” Gendry whinged from his place in front of the fire. “Those aren’t finished, you know.”

 _Thwack._ “Fine. I’m out anyway.”

Arya crossed the room and pulled the knives from the pole. Three were embedded so deep she had to yank them out with both hands. She dropped them where she found them on the workbench and slumped onto the floor beside Gendry. He was maybe a yard away from the fire, but he was still obviously freezing. “Aren’t you warm down here?”

He looked at her like she was mad. “Not warm enough.” He took a swig from a wineskin he’d clearly lifted from the kitchens and passed it to her.

She didn’t often drink, but she felt like starting tonight. She took a sip, frowning at the sour taste.

Gendry took it back, shaking his head. “You’ll feed a man his own children, but you don’t drink wine.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Those things aren’t related.” She reached for the skin after he had another gulp.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.”

“Yes, I do.” She drank deeply, and it was easier this time. If the Hound could fight drunk, then by the gods, so could she.

He studied her, an odd look on his face. He’d gotten more handsome again. Still boyish for a man his age, with a crooked smile and eyes that looked like he knew a brilliant joke no one else was in on. He’d been through a lot himself, she knew. How was he fine with it all when she'd turned into--well, whatever she was?

Realizing she was staring, she looked away.

“Why are you so angry?” he asked.

“How long have you got?”

Gendry sighed. “No, I mean about your sister and Clegane.”

“He doesn’t have the right,” she blurted, trying to put her feelings into words. “She’s a lady, she’s all petticoats and dessert spoons and he’s...well, he’s _the Hound_. He’s a beast. He’s mean as he is ugly, and he’s no good for her.”

He pursed his lips, irritatingly smug. “You sound like you’re jealous.”

“Of Sansa?” She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve no desire to be a lady. I’m no one.”

“You’re just like him, though, aren’t you?” Gendry observed. “Cut from the same cloth, only less of it. Perhaps you want him.”

Arya choked on her wine. “You ought to put on your helmet before you get hit in the head. It is not like that. We’re friends...well, almost.”

Gendry smiled, so condescending she wanted to hit him. “You love him.”

“I do not!”

“You do, and you should. He’s just like you. You love your sister. Is it so strange that he would, too?”

If Arya rolled her eyes any harder, they’d get stuck. “Everyone loves Sansa. Sansa just loves herself.” Even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. They’d had some time together now, and Sansa was not the same brat she’d fought with as a child. Sansa was better now, and if the Hound had something to do with that, she’d buy him a drink. “Even if she did love somebody, it wouldn’t be him. She always liked pretty boys without two wits to rub together.”

He shrugged. “Things change. Do you want the same things you wanted when you were eleven? I bloody don’t.”

 _When she was eleven._ She tried to remember. She felt like she was a hundred years old. So much had changed in the meantime, the memories she had of her childhood were like the quaint recollections of another or a half-remembered dream. She’d still wanted the same things, though. She wanted to fight, to ride, to explore the world. She didn’t want to play the lady, to be a broodmare for some titled fool.

_And yet._

She’d seen enough of the world to know she wanted her family with her, and there were advantages to companionship. Just because she didn’t want the kind of marriage her mother had planned for her didn’t mean she didn’t want a partner. She’d take a lover if she cared to, if she ever met someone half the man she was. He couldn’t be useless or stupid or cruel; he’d have to be someone she could talk to who understood her, someone with quick reflexes and a faster mouth. Someone who could keep her on her toes.

Her gaze returned to her drinking companion, lingering perhaps a little too long on his biceps. She’d fancied him when she was younger. It seemed she still did.

“Yes,” she answered finally. “I want the same thing. I’ve never wanted to be a lady.”

“You’re a lady whether you want to be or not. You can’t help how you’re born.”

“Like you? You’re King Robert’s son. Are you going to hang up your hammer and become a lord?”

He nodded. “If your brother legitimizes me. I’ll be a blacksmith when it suits me, and when it suits me, I’ll be no one. It doesn’t change who I am or who you are.”

“I’ve never wanted to be who I am.” She sighed. “I don’t want to marry like Sansa did.”

Gendry laughed. “You think any lord would be stupid enough to marry you against your will? He’d wake up with a sword between his eyes.”

Arya sneered. “That would be the last place I’d put it. It’s much faster to go straight for the--”

He stared at her.

“Oh.” What did he expect? She couldn’t let a bad suggestion of a stupid way to kill someone _just sit there_. Perhaps she was a bit broken, after all. “Are you saying no one would want to marry me?”

He threw up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I’m saying no one in their right mind would marry you if you didn’t want it. You’re nobody’s docile bride.”

She gagged. “Is that what you want? A _docile bride_?”

“Don’t drag me into this. What I want doesn’t mean anything. I’m just a blacksmith.”

“A blacksmith with king’s blood.”

“Don’t remind me.” He shuddered. “Do you know what they do to people with king’s blood? The Red Woman tied me to a bed, stripped me naked, and put leeches on my prick. _Leeches_.”

The image of Gendry tied to a bed was ruined with the knowledge the Red Woman had been there at the time. Her eye twitched. One more reason to kill her. “Is that what you’ve been doing all this time? Playing bizarre sex games with red priestesses?”

He scoffed. “Don’t look at me, miss Game-of-Faces. What is that, anyway?”

She jumped at the opportunity to find out more about him. “Do you want to play? You tell me lies and try to make them sound like the truth. What have you been doing all these years?”

Gendry shrugged. “Rowing. Hitting things. Figuring out who I am and planning vengeance.”

Arya nodded. “Same, yeah. Except for the rowing thing. Is that why you’re so…?”

“So what?”

If Arya had been another kind of woman, she might have blushed. “When I hugged you earlier, it was running into a brick wall. You don’t have any soft places.”

“You have a couple now. Not that I noticed. You’re still a midget, though.”

“That was a lie.”

“What was?”

She smiled, pleased with herself. “That you didn’t notice.”

He _did_ blush. “Fine. You lie to me, then.”

“It doesn’t work if you see it coming.”

“Do it anyway.”

She took a breath and began. “My name is Arya Stark.”

His eyebrows drew together. Even confusion looked good on him. “I know that.”

“Shut up, that’s how the game works. You have to respect the process.”

“Fine, carry on.”

“My name is Arya Stark,” she repeated. “After you left, I thought you were dead. The Hound kidnapped me and held me for ransom, but my family didn’t pay because they were all mad or dead. Brienne of Tarth fought him for me and I snuck away because I was ready to protect myself. I left him for dead and sailed for Braavos, where I trained to be a Faceless Man. I swore to kill the Red Woman for taking you from me, and now I’ve returned to finish the job.”

He regarded her carefully, stroking his chin like a man deep in thought. “That’s a good story. I know you weren’t lying about the Faceless Man thing, so you were lying about...Brienne of Tarth?”

Arya shook her head. “No. I’ve returned to kill more people than just the Red Woman.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. What do you want?”

She held his gaze. “I want to be Lady of Winterfell--”

“Liar.”

“I want to be Arya Stark.”

He almost smiled. She saw it. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not so certain anymore,” she confessed. “I used to want to be alone, and now I want a castle--”

“Liar.”

“I used to want to be alone, and now I just want my family to be safe. I’ve come back to protect my pack, and you’re part of it. If anyone tries to take you from me again, I’ll tear their eyes out.”

Gendry stared at her.

“Go on,” she challenged. “Call me a liar.”

“What else do you want?” His gaze softened and he looked at her the way so many men looked at her sister. He looked at her like she was beautiful.

She wanted that.

She didn’t answer. “What have you been doing all this time?” she asked him.

“I already told you.”

“Tell me again.”

Gendry sighed. “Working. Planning. Whoring. Drinking.”

She smiled. “Liar. You’ve never been with a whore.”

“How do you know that?” he demanded, offended.

She cracked a smile. “Because men who look like you don’t have to pay for it.”

He laughed. “Arya, I’m touched.”

“Touched in the head, maybe.” She looked away, embarrassed she’d admitted she found him attractive. “What is it, then? Have you got a bit of fluff back in Flea Bottom? Some strumpet standing by to be Lady Baratheon?”

He flashed her a brilliant smile. “You’re jealous.”

“You’re deranged.”

He shrugged. “And you’re jealous. Yes, I’ve got two girls back in Flea Bottom--a barmaid and a basket weaver called Ermengarde and Clover. They get me on alternating nights and on Sundays, Clover’s sister joins in.”

Arya blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Obviously I’m joking. You think a blacksmith could hold the attention of one Flea Bottom girl, let alone three?”

“Only if they’ve seen you with your top off,” she mumbled.

“What was that?”

She cleared her throat. “I said what are you doing here, anyway?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He grinned. “Your brother wants me to forge Valyrian steel.”

Arya frowned. “Why?”

“Because I know how.”

She blinked. He gave no indication of lying, and yet she couldn’t believe it. “You’re telling the truth. How long will it take you to do it?”

“Longer than we’ve got.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m going to try, though.”

“We’d better get started.” She stood, dusting the straw rushes off her trousers. “And you might be right. About that other thing.”

He took the hand she offered and pulled himself to stand. He towered over her, but everyone did. “About what?”

“Sansa and the Hound. At least I know he’d never hurt her.” She glanced at the keep, wishing she could read Sansa’s mind. “I wish I could say the same for her.”

  
  



	13. Queen in the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon summons Sansa in the middle of the night. Secrets are revealed, and plans change...

Sansa hurried down the hall toward Jon’s old bedroom, the mad whirring of her thoughts punctuated by the metallic clink of Brienne’s long strides.

_It’s not what you think._

_No, it_ is _what you think, but I have every right to do it. Every right, Jon, and so help me, if you or anyone else try to take him from me--_

Brienne’s low murmur interrupted Sansa’s internal tirade. “Lady Sansa…” She sighed. “If I may--”

Sansa stopped and looked up at her friend. Whatever she had to say, Sansa was certain she didn’t want to hear it. “What is it?”

Brienne let out a long breath. “Now that we may speak in confidence, I would know the truth of it. Did he...force himself--”

“No!”

“Did he ever?” If possible, she quieted her voice further. “When you were in King’s Landing? You were forced to fend for yourself all that time--”

“No,” she replied emphatically. “Never. But I was never alone. Sandor kept the lions at bay.”

Brienne grew thoughtful at her mention of lions. At least there was one way to distract her. The woman was tireless; when she got it into her mind to worry about something, nothing short of Jaime Lannister in a golden loincloth would put her off the scent.

They continued down the hall, and Sansa’s resolve faltered as Jon’s door came into view. “Does he know?” she asked.

Brienne shook her head sadly. “I couldn’t say.” She knocked sharply on the door.

The door swung open and Samwell Tarly quivered on the other side. He was pleasant enough, but clearly awestruck by the sight of a woman in armor. Brienne would never be called beautiful, but she was striking--imposing of height and countenance, she shone as bright as the sword she carried, striking terror into the hearts of those who would cross her.

No one had ever looked at Sansa with that kind of awe--not Ramsey, and not even Lord Baelish when she beat him at his own game.

Perhaps what she needed was some armor of her own.

“Sansa,” Jon sighed. He looked older somehow. The joyful young king who had charmed the northern lords at supper was gone; Jon had retreated into himself as he often did, his face pale and eyes dim with the grief he carried with him like a curse. It was a curse they shared and she knew it well, but something about tonight was different.

The room was full of people, but no one was speaking. Jon leaned against the windowsill, his arms folded across his chest. Daenerys sat on the foot of the bed, staring into the fire. Sam held the door, and Bran’s chair had been pushed up to the table. Tyrion sat beside him, watching Sansa’s expression.  

No one said a word.

Sansa’s heart dropped. “What’s happened? Where’s Arya?”

“Safe,” said Bran. “She’s in the forge with Robert’s son.”

She frowned in confusion. “Which Robert?” She had just started to get used to Bran’s uncanny ability to know things no mortal should, but his visions always raised more questions than they answered. Having the knowledge of the gods, he seemed to forget others needed context to understand what he was telling them. Sansa knew six Roberts off the top of her head, and they could have fifty sons between them for all she knew.

“Baratheon,” Bran said like it was nothing. “Gendry is Robert’s son, like Jon is Rhaegar’s.”

Sansa barely registered the collective murmur of protest at Bran’s revelation. Jon, she noticed, was not surprised. “What?”

Tyrion studied the bottom of his goblet. “That’s one way to tell the poor girl…”

Bran looked through her, unfazed. “Sansa has a secret.”

If she blushed any deeper, she would have burst into flame. Hopefully no one noticed. She changed the subject before one revelation became many. “What does he mean about Rhaegar? Jon?”

Her brother--well, was he?--looked like he was about to be ill. “It’s true.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair, more a Stark on the surface than she had ever been. And yet, if he wasn’t Ned’s…

Sam cleared his throat. “We found the records. That is to say, his mother--your aunt Lyanna,  I suppose she would be--married Rhaegar Targaryen. Bran saw it as well.”

“Lyanna?” The room started to spin. She gripped Brienne’s elbow to steady herself. “You’re not a bastard. You’re the heir to the Seven Kingdoms.”

“One of them,” Daenerys said, her voice deceptively steady. Sansa couldn’t imagine how the dragon queen felt about all this. “There are two of us now.”

Sansa’s spine stiffened like steel. Was Jon in danger? Daenerys seemed to like him well enough, but if her claim was in danger… “You can’t tell anyone. Our control over the North is tenuous enough as it is, do you think they’ll accept a Targaryen as their king?”

Jon crossed the room and took her shoulders in his hands in a brotherly--cousinly?--gesture of comfort. “They’ll accept a Stark.”

Everyone in the room stared at her, and she understood.

They were asking her to be queen in the north.

A lump rose in her throat and it tasted just like triumph. “But Bran--”

“I’m not staying,” Bran cut her off. “A raven cannot be king. The North is yours. It was always going to be yours.”

It was too much, too soon, but some secret part of her heart knew he was right.

“What does it matter?” she asked. “The armies of the dead--”

“They’re marching south. Bran saw them go. We don’t know why, but it buys us some time. We need to consolidate our forces before we march after them.” Jon bit his lip as though mulling over saying something terrible. “You might have to win their loyalty. I know you don’t want to marry again yet, but perhaps an alliance with a northern lord--”

Sansa took a full step backward, repulsed by the suggestion. “Loyalty? Winterfell is mine twice over. I am Ned Stark’s heir and Ramsey Bolton’s widow. I married that monster to reclaim my home, and now he’s dead, it’s mine by right.”

Jon balked. “We took it back, in fairness--”

“Because of me,” she insisted, her voice rising. “Without the Knights of the Vale, every last one of us would be dead. I have bled for their loyalty, and if they cannot see a Stark beneath this Tully hair, I cannot help them. I don’t have to prove myself to anyone.”

“Sansa,” Jon snapped. “I beg you to see reason. They will not see a Stark or a Tully, but a Lannister and a Bolton. I know you do not wish to consider it, but there’s more at stake here than your wishes.”

Tyrion cleared his throat. “She’s right.”

Everyone’s attention turned to him. In the heat of the moment, Sansa had forgotten he was there.

“Lady Sansa could marry,” he continued, “and any one of your illustrious northern lords could just as easily murder her and take the north for themselves. The Bolton bastard very nearly succeeded. As his widow, Lady Sansa has no need of a husband to keep Winterfell. In fact, Winterfell would be safer if she did not have one. She cannot marry above her station as she would be obliged to leave Winterfell, and I understand you Starks frown on leaving this pile unattended. Then, of course, you would be forced to reckon with a new king who might take it into his head to rebel against you. If Lady Sansa married again, the man in question would have to be below her station and content to serve as a consort to a ruling monarch. You would have to trust him implicitly. Is there anyone you trust not to murder your sister and steal your home out from under you?”

Jon fell quiet. Tyrion was absolutely, blessedly right, and Sansa could have kissed him. He met her gaze across the room. He’d done her a great favor, and he knew it.

 _Thank you_ , she mouthed.

He raised his goblet to her.

Daenerys stood suddenly. “He’s right. I see no reason a queen cannot rule on her own. Sansa, if I support your claim to the North, will you bend the knee?”

Sansa didn’t have to be asked twice. As she knelt before Daenerys, her heart soared like a bird.

“Good.” Daenerys offered her a hand to help her up, more a sister than a queen after all that. “I will marry Jon, and our right will not be questioned. You will hold the north. I will allow the Usurper’s son to live, but we must ensure his loyalty. He cannot marry you, but if he bends the knee, I will grant him Storm’s End. Perhaps an alliance with someone else. Who is loyal to the Starks?”

Sansa tried to think of every unmarried young woman she knew. Most of them were dead. Lyanna Mormont wouldn’t be of age for years, and even then would likely sooner end her life than abandon her house to marry anyone, let alone a southron lord.

Bran’s voice broke the silence. “Arya.”

Jon laughed. He stopped himself, then he laughed some more.

Sansa folded her arms across her chest. “You’d sell me off in a heartbeat. Why not Arya?”

“Have you met Arya?” Jon rolled his eyes.

Bran had that faraway look he sometimes got when he was remembering something he’d seen. “Ask her,” he said. “Then ask her again. Leave it up to her.”

Jon frowned. “Are you seeing the future?”

Bran shook his head. “The present. She fell asleep on him. Look.”

Sansa crossed the room and peered through the window. Sure enough, from Bran’s vantage point, she could just make out two figures sleeping near the forge, and it looked like they were holding each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for sticking with me. I'm so sorry for the delay. Things are still crazy IRL re: jobs (plural), but I have this plotted out and it'll get there eventually. Thank you for all of your wonderful comments. We have some Brienne coming up soon. BTW, if that comment about Jaime Lannister in a golden loincloth inspires anyone to make some fan art, I would love to see it (for research purposes, obv). xoxo


	14. Beauty and Other Injustices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's been promoted, but she's not ready to celebrate just yet.

They had waked ten paces from Jon Snow’s chamber before Brienne realized she had been holding her breath.

She had held her tongue for an hour of more until she was sure she would choke on all the words that had threatened to spew forth. They were warnings and questions, and they came from that same place in her gut that told her when danger was near.

She didn’t know the northern lords. Truth be told, she barely knew the Starks. She would have been more content to trust their judgment on the matter if the safety of the queen they intended to crown did not rest solely on her shoulders. Her dearest wish had always been to serve as a member of the Kingsguard, but never in her wildest dreams had she anticipated she would be the _only_ member of a new one established in the north.

She had already lost Renly. With no one to back her up, how could she help but lose Sansa?

Sansa strode ahead, utterly confident in Brienne’s ability to protect her. Holding her head higher than before, she seemed taller somehow, as though she was wearing an invisible crown no one else could see. It had likely been there for years, but Brienne was only seeing it now. What could Sansa have been but a queen?

Brienne’s heart swelled as she thought of Catelyn. What would she say if she could see her daughter now?

 _I’ll protect her_ , Brienne pledged to Catelyn’s memory. _I’ll die protecting her if I must, even if I’m the only one_.

Then again, she may not be the only one. The most foolish thing Sansa had said in the meeting came back to her, and she could hold her tongue no longer. She cleared her throat. “Lady Sansa—erm, _Your Grace_ \--I must advise you to reconsider putting Sandor Clegane in your Queensguard. And as for being your shield--”

Sansa sniffed and it sounded a bit like a laugh. “He is a skilled fighter and I trust him with my life. You’ll still be captain.”

Brienne gave a heavy sigh. “As appealing the notion of ordering him around is, his rank is not what concerns me. You cannot name a knight your sword shield without his consent.”

That got her attention. Sansa stopped midstride and turned. “He’s not a knight.”

“Nevertheless, it is a sacred pledge, and one must enter into it of their own free will.”

Sansa’s gaze softened. “No one will ever replace you, Brienne. Are two shields not better than one?”

“Not if one of them does not know he has promised to die for you.”

Sansa’s carefully constructed defenses fell, and for a moment, she was a young girl with a secret that had been discovered.

She didn’t have to say a word. It was written on her face that he already had promised that very thing.

Brienne lowered her voice. “Your Grace, I beg you to speak with him before you rush to make any announcements. Clegane is a stubborn man. If you dictate his future, I do not see him going along with it, even if what you’re offering is what he wants most in this world. Tread carefully.”

Sansa pursed her lips and her innate haughtiness returned. “Thank you, Lady Brienne.”

“Would you like me to accompany you when you discuss it with him?”

“I think it best if we discuss it privately.” She continued past the door to her chamber and went straight for his. “Get some rest if you can. I’ll need you when Jon addresses the lords.”

As Sansa opened the door, Brienne caught a glimpse of Clegane sitting in the chair beneath the window. He was bigger, uglier, and older than she herself was, but the moment he saw Sansa, the years fell away and that ugliness softened until he was nothing more than a boy in love.

The door whispered shut and Brienne was left standing in the hallway alone.

She huffed.

She would never be able to sleep now. Better to get in some training before the yard was full. She headed toward the stairs.

Brienne wanted Sansa to be happy. Gods knew she deserved it. She didn’t begrudge Clegane his love affair, however unlikely it was, but seeing them together made her heart heavy.

Ugliness was never an obstacle for men. Brutish, hairy as a bear, and with half of his face melted off, even Sandor Clegane had the love and trust of one of the most beautiful young women in the Seven Kingdoms.

He was far from the only one—even men ugly as sin could be loved for their bravery, honor, prowess, or good character. A woman could have all those traits and lands besides, but if she was ugly, she was nothing.

She had learned a great deal from the rotten boys she had grown up with. She had learned how to fight them, to beat them, to rise to greet another day even when she was sure her bruised heart couldn’t take any more abuse—but the only thing she had learned that she hadn’t been able to accept was that they saw ugly women as unworthy of love.

No, they saw _her_ as unworthy of love.

Brienne would never inspire ballads to her beauty, but that didn’t mean she herself was incapable of love. Everything she had ever done had been for love—love of honor, service, her king, and now her queen. Love of everything it meant to be a knight, to fight bravely and to protect the innocent. Love of—

Renly’s face faded a little more each day. She had been so grateful to him and she knew she had loved him, of course she had, but every time she tried to think of the man she loved, the eyes she remembered weren’t his.

They were green.

Green as sea glass, green as emeralds, green as the wildfire he’d ignited in her heart. Those eyes were tired, wise, and though he’d die before he admitted it, they were kind.

She’d seen the man he was inside when no one else could see past the golden hair and chiseled cheeks. She wasn’t like the others, she told herself—she hadn’t been taken in by his beauty, but his soul.

Much good it did her. She resisted the urge to kick the wall.

He admired her, she knew. He respected her, and she appreciated that.

It would never be enough.

It would _have_ to be enough.

Jaime Lannister would never be hers. What heartless god had thought it amusing to make the ugliest woman in Westeros hopelessly infatuated with the most beautiful man?

Even now, Ser Jaime would be in King’s Landing, loyal as ever to the only woman as beautiful as he was.

_We can’t help who we love._

If she had known that before, it had only grown truer with time. It was just as well a member of a Queensguard could never marry.

Brienne never would.

 

 


	15. Lovers and Tyrants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa brings news and a proposition. Sandor senses a trap.

_Queen Sansa._

The idea was so divine, she was almost drunk off it. She was always meant to be a queen—indeed, if things had gone differently back in King’s Landing, she would be Joffrey’s, tolerating his madness by drinking herself into oblivion like his mother. She had given up on the idea when she had given up on him, gladly consigning both to the midden of history, but now—

Now things were different.

She had been raised to be a wife, to manage an estate as the chattel of a lord. She had accepted her fate, and gladly, dreaming of handsome knights and noble princes in her childish innocence. Surely one day she’d have one of her own, quietly supporting him as he ruled his lands. Never would she have thought she could rule alone. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined she’d fall for an ill-tempered non-Ser commonly regarded to be among ugliest in the Seven Kingdoms.

But fall she had. Her girlish dreams had been replaced by larger, better ones—so much bigger than they had been that she was almost frightened by them. Her appetites were insatiable and boundless as the sea. She would be no one’s second in command, no man’s broodmare.

She would be Queen in the bloody North, and gods help anyone who stood in her way.

Brienne sighed again, and Sansa said nothing. She knew Brienne disapproved of what she’d done, but she didn’t know what it was like between her and Sandor. She didn’t expect Brienne to understand.

No longer hiding, she headed straight for his room.

He was waiting for her in the chair. If not for the fire burning in the hearth and his things packed on the freshly made bed, she would have thought he hadn’t moved since she had left. Leaving Brienne in the hall, she closed the door behind her, waiting until she heard Brienne’s steps retreating toward the stairs before she spoke. “You built a fire?”

“Tell me you don’t think me totally useless,” he grumbled, not unpleasantly. “How long do I have?”

She stopped midstride. “I beg your pardon?”

He sighed heavily. “Until your brother has my head. I assume that’s why you were summoned.”

Sansa would have laughed if she wasn’t so startled by the idea. “Of course not. You’re in no danger.”

“We’ll see about that.” He huffed. “Tell him it was worth it.”

Her smile felt strange and wonderful on her face, like she’d learned something new and now she couldn’t get enough of it. How many years had gone by without one? Now with no one to command her and no one to separate her from the man she loved, she’d have to get used to smiling again. She perched on the edge of the bed, barely an arm’s length away from him. “I need to talk to you.”

Clearly sensing the change in her tone, he straightened as though bracing himself for a blow. “When are we leaving?”

 _Never,_ she wanted sing. _You never have to leave me again._

“Plans have changed,” she began, unsure of how to proceed. “Everything has changed.”

She began by telling him the truth of Jon’s parentage. He seemed uninterested if not unsurprised, and chuckled when he realized Jon would be marrying his aunt. “That will take care of uniting the kingdoms, assuming there are any left after today.”

“Not exactly.” She sighed. “The army of the dead is marching south. No one knows why, not even Bran. This buys us more time before we have to ride out to meet them, but also makes the matter of the Northern succession a more pressing issue.”

He frowned, not understanding. “But Jon…?”

She shook her head. “The Northern lords will never accept a Targaryen as king. They need a Stark.”

“So you’ll trade one brother for the other.”

“Bran can’t, and what’s more, he doesn’t want it.” She bit her lip, suddenly as nervous as she was excited. “Sandor, it’s me. I’m to be Queen in the North. Jon’s addressing the lords today.”

She didn’t expect him to jump for joy, but she didn’t think he’d look so devastated, either. Pale as parchment, he looked as close to tears as she’d ever seen him. He clenched his jaw and looked away. “You were made to be Queen. What lord have they got picked out for you, then? I’d better make my way before he catches the smell of dog on you.”

Her heart sped up in anticipation of telling him the good news. “The North is my birthright, as well as mine as Ramsey’s widow. The fate of it depends on me ruling, and me ruling alone. I will not cede it to anyone. The only man I trust—the only man I would give myself to—is you.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “They won’t want me sniffing around their queen. What will they think of you?”

She shrugged. “Nothing worse than what they think of Cersei. She shags her brother, and you’ll just be in my Queensguard.”

He recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “Will I?”

She took his huge hands in hers, bending to kiss his knuckles. “Say you will, Sandor. I told Jon you would be my sworn shield.”

He stood so quickly that the chair smacked against the wall. He paced the room, his face reddening before he answered. “Queen or no, that’s not your decision to make. I’m not your bloody plaything!”

“I-I never thought you were, only--"

“Only what? You thought you’d determine the rest of my life when I wasn’t even in the room?”

Shocked by his anger, she blinked, and was surprised to feel a tear roll down her cheek. She didn’t think she was capable of those anymore. “You said you’d die for me. You said you were at my command. Did you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it!” he thundered. “There’s a difference between worshipping you and signing up to hold the bloody door for you for the rest of my life while you, what? Rule in serene celibacy?”

“Would you sit down and listen to me?” she shouted. It wasn’t a question.

For all his protestations, he did.

“Refuse if you must, but know what you’re refusing.” She felt the steel return to her spine. “I will never have a king, but nothing prevents me from having a lover. If you pledge yourself to me, you’ll be beside me always. You won’t have to be a sellsword or defend some tyrant; it will just be you and me and nothing will ever separate us again.”

He swallowed. “What makes you think you won’t be a tyrant? You should know better than most what power does to people.”

She did, but it didn’t change anything. “Perhaps I will be. Who’s to say? I will make outrageous demands of you. Your time, your sword, your loyalty, your body—all of it will be mine. Do you expect me to believe you would mind?”

Clearly agitated, he swept his hair over the burned side of his face. “I suppose I’m meant to be grateful you’d bother with the likes of me. You want my sword so badly, you’d fuck me for it? Must have been difficult for you.”

“Are you really accusing me of whoring myself out for a _sword?”_ she snarled. “I don’t _need your sword_. I have Brienne—“

He shrugged. “So fuck her.”

She slapped him.

He sat back in the chair, folding his arms. “The truth hurts, does it?”

She stood, throwing her hands up in the air. “The only that’s hurting me is your stupidity. How could you think I would manipulate you to gain your protection? You, who have always given it freely? I’ve had quite enough of your self-loathing nonsense. I told you I’m in love with you. Believe me or don’t. Stay here with me, by my side, in my bed, or don’t. I won’t bloody beg you.”

Before he could answer, she turned on her heel and headed to the armory.


	16. Stupid Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry does something very brave or very stupid. An unexpected arrival rattles Brienne.

There was something about Arya that wasn’t quite human. 

Sparring with Brienne, she moved like a cat, soared like a bird, and lunged like a wolf. No one in the Seven Kingdoms fought the way she did. Equal parts art, skill, and instinct, for every meticulous parry or thrust, there was a move he’d never seen before he suspected she’d just made up. She fought for the joy of it, for the filthy primal thrill of it. She fought like others drank, danced, or fucked: with complete, almost bestial abandon. 

She was incredible. 

He’d always known she grow up pretty, but he had no idea she’d grow into this. If he could go back in time, he’d shake his stupid teenage self for ever letting her out of his sight. She’d offered to be his family once, and he wished he could take her up on that now. He should have taken her up on it then--run off with her and look after until they were old enough to marry--but he’d known he wasn’t good enough for her. 

King’s blood or no, that knowledge hadn’t changed, but it didn’t bother him anymore. Now that he’d nearly died once or twice, he knew life was too bloody short to spend years trying to prove a nebulous point to the girl he wanted more than anything in the world. So he wasn’t good enough. So what? He knew she thought he was handsome, and he could make himself useful to her. He’d carry her sword if that’s all she wanted him for, but he wouldn’t leave her again without speaking his piece. 

Maybe she’d tell him to fuck off and die, but at least he’d try. 

The sound of a snap followed by Arya’s mournful howl startled him out of his ridiculous fantasies. Brienne sheathed her sword immediately and they both rushed to Arya’s side. 

“You alright, Arry?” He seized her by the shoulders, looking for blood. 

Arya gaped at the smallsword in her hand, her huge eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He had never seen her so upset. It unsettled him to his bones. 

“Needle,” she said. “It’s broken.”

Brienne gave a sympathetic sigh. “I’m sorry, my lady. Can it be repaired?”

Gendry gently took the hilt from her hand and found the point easily enough in the straw. “I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did.”

“That’s castle-forged steel,” Arya protested. “Mikken made that!” 

He shrugged. “And it’s made well, but something this thin wouldn’t stand a chance against Brienne’s Valyrian steel if it’s struck in the wrong place, three sides or no.” The break was clean enough, but a sword wasn’t something that could just be stitched back together. “I'll have to melt it down and start it again, but I can do it.”

He carried it into the forge, clamped the vise around it, and knocked the hilt off with a hammer. 

Arya followed, leaving Brienne sparring with Podrick in the yard. She sat in the window, suddenly quiet. “Are you going to do it right now?” 

He glanced up to find her watching him with interest. “I’ll not have it done for hours, so there’s no use waiting.”

“I don’t mind.” She gave him an odd little smile, an almost predatory twitch of a thing. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to be friendly or if he was about to get eaten. 

He cleared his throat. When Flea Bottom girls looked at a man like that, it only meant one thing. But given that Arya had baked a man’s sons into a pie--by her own admission--he wasn’t at all certain how to take it. He set the broken sword aside, but Arya’s gaze followed him like a cat tracking a spider. It probably should have made him nervous--well, that and the pie thing--but if anything, it was exciting. There was something about not knowing whether a girl wanted to see his cock or tear it off that was oddly appealing. She’d keep him on his toes. 

That is, if she stuck around. Or if he did. Or if they survived at all. 

“Fuck it,” he muttered. 

Arya blinked, taken aback. “Fuck what?”

Gendry shook his head hard to rid his mind of all the filthy things that had suddenly filled it. “Can we talk?”

She frowned. It wasn’t a little moue of disapproval like some ladies wore, but a sailor’s scowl in miniature. He loved it. “Aren’t we?”

He ran a hand over his head, still not used to having shorter hair. “I’ve never been good with words, me. Speak too many of ‘em, and they’re all the wrong ones, aren’t they?”

Arya snorted. “Obviously.”

Whatever he said, it was going to be wrong. He could feel it. His heart pounded furiously, hammering the flaws out of his chest from the inside. If it pounded much harder, the whole mess would crack open. His feet carried him toward her before he realized what they were doing. He was so nervous, his mouth was dry. Ridiculous response. He had nothing to lose. 

She looked up at him with those big, gray eyes, and his heart dropped clear into his gut. 

Nothing, and everything. 

He licked his lips, but it wasn’t enough to make his mouth feel normal. Arya’s gaze followed the tip of his tongue from one side to the other, her expression oddly glazed. Probably wondering if he’d go better with turnips or peas. He coughed, almost laughing in spite of himself. “Listen, Arya…”

She cracked a smile. “I’m listening, Gendry.”

“Can you be serious? Just for one moment, that’s all I ask.” 

She arched an eyebrow. “Can you? I’m genuinely curious.” Now within arm’s length, she reached out and snatched fistfulls of his shirt, yanking him closer. 

He went. What else could he do? “You’re stronger than you look.”

She pulled him closer still, as close to her as he could get without pushing her through the window. Though everyone with eyes could see she was a woman, she still wore breeches like a man, and he got a good look at their construction as she threw her legs wider than any lady would and pulled him between them. They were fully clothed, but to any passersby, the position would look more than suspect. “You don’t think I look strong?” 

“I didn’t say that,” he protested. “Only, you  _ are  _ very small.” 

“You’ve got taller,” she observed. “I almost didn’t recognize you without all your hair.” 

He wanted to ask if she preferred it longer. He wanted to explain why he’d cut it. He wanted to make a half-baked joke about it. Instead, the first thing that popped out of his mouth was, “Liar.”

Her mouth dropped open. He’d done the impossible. 

He’d shocked her. 

Perhaps he’d shock her again. 

The worst she could do was stab him. He quickly weighed the pros (kissing her) and cons (getting his throat cut) and decided to go for it. 

He reached out very slowly and brushed a long strand of dark hair behind her ear. 

She let him. She didn’t have to. 

The length suited her. It was good short, good long--in all honesty, he didn’t care one way or the other; it was her eyes that drew his attention every time he looked at her. Sharp and bright as steel, they had the same effect on his guts. They were watching him now. Though he had a good foot on her and probably weighed twice as much, they both knew he couldn’t overpower her if he tried. Whatever it was he was doing, she was letting him do it. 

Encouraged, he lowered his gaze to her mouth and bent his head until he could feel her breath on his lips. She had freckles--pale, pale gold freckles--and the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen. She smelled like strawberries and her lips were the same ripe red. Would they taste as sweet?

“Arya,” he whispered. “Don’t laugh. I think I want to kiss you.” 

He felt her sigh more than he heard it. “Stupid boy.” Suddenly she was kissing him, clutching him to her like she’d thought about doing this once or twice herself. Her kiss was more pressure than art, more desperation than seduction. She kissed to take rather than to give. He’d never felt so taken advantage of in his life. 

He liked it. 

Burying his fingers in her hair, he gently eased off, showing her how to deepen the kiss with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. She seemed to humor him more than anything, pulling him flush against her hips with her heels on his arse. For someone without a lot of experience, she certainly was forward. 

She broke off when she felt his laugh against her lips. “What?”

He smiled down at her, half-drunk with the joy of it. “I’ve finally found something you’re not very good at.”

She scowled and punched him in the stomach. 

He laughed through the considerable pain. “It’s not a bad thing. Just means you need practice, is all.” 

Arya regarded him with suspicion. “Practice?”

He nodded. “If you promise not to hit me again, I’d be happy to oblige.” 

She seemed to think it over for a moment, then grabbed his shirt again. “No promises.”

“Is anyone in here?” 

They leapt apart at the sound on a female voice echoing through the forge. Gendry felt himself flush ten shades of scarlet and reached for the nearest object he could use to hide his shame. Unfortunately, it was a helmet. At a loss, he held it over his erection. 

Arya cackled. She hopped off the windowsill like the world hadn’t just changed forever and marched past him to the lady sorting through the armor. “What are you looking for?”

The lady didn’t seem surprised to find Arya there. “I’ll know when I see it. Does this belong to anyone, or can I use it?”

Arya looked to Gendry for an answer, but he only shrugged. “Couldn’t say, milady. Just arrived here myself.” 

The lady straightened up at the sound of his voice. He had only seen her from a distance before, but he knew who she was. Tall, pretty, with distinctive long, red hair, she had to be Arya’s sister. “You must be Robert’s son.” 

He swallowed, feeling more awkward than he ought. “Aye, milady. Gendry Waters.” He reached out to shake her hand, then dropped it. How did one greet a lady? 

Arya was lady, and he greeted her very differently. 

Arya rolled her eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck. “This is my sister, Sansa. She’s Wardeness of the North, Lady of Winterfell, blah blah blah…”

Sansa paled. “Arya, I need to talk to you about that. Will you help me find a breast plate and come back to the keep with me? Assuming there are any pieces that don’t belong to anyone, that is.” 

Gendry shrugged. “They belong to you, milady. Take what you need.” 

Sansa nodded pleasantly. “Thank you.” 

As Sansa wandered around the room, Arya followed at a distance, distinctly uncomfortable. Every time Sansa looked at her, Arya averted her gaze and blushed. Odd, that. She hadn’t seemed nearly as timid minutes before when she’d had her legs wrapped around his waist. 

Sansa cleared her throat delicately. “Have you seen Sandor Clegane this morning? I’ve been looking for him.”

Arya visibly cringed and he had to keep himself from laughing. She wasn’t embarrassed about what they had been doing, but what she had seen in the early hours of the morning. “No,” she snapped. 

Sansa’s shoulders sank in disappointment. A slight movement, but it was there. “If either of you see him, would you tell him I’d like to speak with him? I would hate for him to...to leave...without…” She sighed. “Just tell him I want him. To see him, that is.” 

Arya kept her eyes on her boots and did not answer. 

Sansa frowned. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you,” Arya said quietly. “I’ll tell him.” 

“Thank you.” Something drew Sansa’s attention and she headed toward the back room. “What’s all of this?”

Gendry and Arya followed. The whole room was stacked floor to ceiling with wooden crates. Gendry shook his head. “They were here when I arrived. Haven’t had much chance to look at them.”

Sansa reached for the lid on the nearest one. 

“I wouldn’t, milady. Last time I saw one of these, there was a wight in it.” 

Arya and Sansa both turned toward him, incredulous. 

“We captured one,” he explained. “It was Jon’s idea. Didn’t he tell you?”

Sansa’s cheeks darkened. “We haven’t discussed that yet.”

“That’s all there is to it, really,” he said. “They captured one beyond the wall, and the Hound carried it to King’s Landing in a crate just like that one.”

“He did what?” Sansa’s eyes blazed. “Why him?”

Gendry took a full step backward. “Biggest, I guess.” 

Arya looked away. Gendry almost smiled at her discomfort. 

Sansa noticed the exchange. She frowned. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Arya lied. 

“Arya saw you two,” Gendry blurted. “Together.”

Arya kicked him in the ankle and he yelped. 

Sansa didn’t blush or show any other outward signs of discomfort. “What of it?”

Arya gaped at her. “You don’t deny it?”

“Why should I?” She shook her head, mildly irritated. 

Arya started counting on her fingers. “He’s ill-tempered, bad-mannered, he’s not a knight, he’s a million years older than you, he’s the ugliest man in the Seven Kingdoms--”

“Hey!” Sansa snapped. 

“Did I mention he’s not a knight?” Arya repeated. “He’s not a prince, not a king, he smells like--”

“He’s mine,” Sansa cut her off. “Whether he knows it or not, he’s mine.”

“He knows,” Arya replied gravely. “He’s always known.”

Bolder than the both of them, Arya lifted the lid on the crate and frowned at what she saw inside. She discarded the lid, and the contents glittered like black diamonds. 

"Dragon glass," he said. "I've never seen so much of it in my life. This changes everything." If the other crates were full of the same, he could make enough Valyrian steel for a small army. 

“Lady Sansa!” 

The three of them looked to the door as a guard rushed in, out of breath. “What is it?” Sansa asked, hurrying to him. 

Gendry automatically went for his hammer, anticipating danger. Arya’s hand was already on the hilt of her dagger. 

“At the gate,” the guard huffed. “A lone rider. Shall we admit him?”

“What banner?” Sansa asked. 

“No banner, my lady. But...but we think we know who he is.” 

“Who is it?” Sansa demanded, impatient. 

“It’s best you come see for yourself, my lady.” 

Sansa went to the gate with the guard, Arya and Gendry following close behind. The moment Brienne saw Sansa and Arya matching with purpose, she rushed to join them, ready to do battle if necessary. The gate was closed, but the window in the door stood open. Sansa went to it without thinking, but Brienne held her back. “Best let me look, my lady. Anything could be on the other side.”

Sansa nodded and let her go. Approaching the gate with caution, Brienne gripped the hilt of her sword and peered out. 

She didn’t say a word, only stared. 

“Brienne? Do you know who it is?”

When Brienne turned, she was pale as Ghost. “Ser Jaime Lannister approaches, my lady. He’s alone. I would advise you to let him in.” 


	17. The Future is Unwritten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's fate is uncertain as he arrives at Winterfell.

Winterfell loomed like a sepulcher over the frozen landscape, a solemn manse of stone for the soon to be dead.

Perhaps they already were. Gods only knew he was close to it himself. Every day that he had traveled farther and farther into darkness, uncertainty, and temperatures so cold they kept him from thinking straight, he had questioned the sense in going. Few could survive the extreme conditions, let alone the threat of a near-invincible enemy marching south.

He was a fool to go. He wouldn’t deny it. He saw his own death in the vast emptiness of the sky, a thick white shroud heavy with snow ready to smother them all. He could no more see a future for himself than he could see a way out of this mess.

What was his future without Cersei? He’d always thought they’d live side by side and die in each other’s arms, but then he’d also dreamt of glory, honor, and fame rather than infamy. He could never have predicted being sworn to one Mad King, fathering another, losing his hand, or losing Cersei’s affection. Perhaps he’d never had it after all.

He certainly couldn’t have predicted _her_ , the maid with the sapphire eyes and the heart of gold, his ugly lovely savior and the person he admired most in the world. If someone had told his younger self--warned him, really--about his impending, confounding, undeniable affection for Brienne the Beauty, he would have laughed himself unconscious. And yet…  

Perhaps the future was unwritten after all.

Jaime rubbed his hands together for warmth. He cupped them over his nose and mouth and exhaled in an effort to warm his nose. All he needed was to lose it to frostbite; with that gone, he and Tyrion would almost be twins. The thought of his brother warmed his heart and set his nerves on end. He and Brienne were in this tomb with the rest of the doomed. How could he hope to protect them both?

As he drew closer to the castle, he could make out the sounds of movement. So much smoke billowed from the fires inside that Winterfell itself seemed to be breathing fire. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumors of a dragon hiding in it after all.

Toward the horizon on the other side of the grounds, he saw their reinforcements. A village of tents and temporary wooden structures sat on the ruined wasteland of what appeared to be a battlefield--or had been, once. Dothraki soldiers with braids hanging past their arses milled about with the Unsullied, all of them seeking warmth in blankets and furs. After seeing them in action, he was surprised to find them occupied with such mundane tasks. The reassuring normalcy belied the clear and immediate danger they presented. If any one of them noticed his approach, they could cut him down before he reached the gate. Fortunately, they seemed to be so concerned with whatever they were roasting over their bonfires that they didn’t notice him coming. Perhaps they didn’t care.

He saw a flash of light as a little window opened in the gate. He might have only imagined it, but he thought he saw a hint of blue. Armor, perhaps. No small part of him hoped he was right.

The gates opened before he could announce himself. Apparently, he didn’t need to. The crowd that had amassed inside parted to admit him, weapons at the ready. There were no more than fifty men in the courtyard, and half of them were boys. There were even a few girls armed with nothing more than sparring swords and fearsome scowls. This truly was a palace of the dead.

In the middle of it all, there she was.

She was hard to miss, to be fair. A head taller than everyone else and shining like a beacon in armor the same cobalt color of her eyes, she was his every boyhood dream come to life and everything he’d wanted to be. She was stronger, harder, and brighter than everyone else, but her eyes… He sighed. Her eyes were still as soft as her heart. He hoped she never lost that.

Cersei was just the opposite. She was small and soft on the outside with eyes as hard and unflinching as stone. He had loved Cersei once because she was what he was--ambitious, idealistic; he loved Brienne because she was what he wanted to be.

He drew a long breath, shivering in the cold. It was too early to be thinking about words like _love_. Too early or too late.

He dismounted to present himself to Sansa Stark. She was older now and so lovely he barely recognized her. Her eyes were harder, too. He bowed. “My lady.”

As he stood, he noticed a short little thing standing to Sansa’s right. She regarded him without fear, one hand on the ornate hilt of a dagger and the other in front of a young man as if to protect him. Jaime almost laughed. The one she appeared to be protecting was a bullish lad, tall with an enormous war hammer over his shoulder. The girl barely came up to his chest but seemed to be acting as his guardian.

It had been years since he’d seen her and he’d never paid much attention to her, but there was no mistaking that one. “You must be Arya.” He glanced up at the lad behind her and took a full step backward when he found himself looking into the face of a young Robert Baratheon. He ran a hand over his face, disbelieving. He’d heard rumors of a lost son, but he’d never taken them seriously until now.

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa greeted. “What brings you to Winterfell?”

Jaime pulled his gaze away from young Robert with some difficulty. “I have come to offer my sword to the King in the North.”

Murmurs of disbelief spread through the crowd, but none appeared to be more surprised than Brienne herself. He wished he could speak to her, to explain himself, to tell her she was right, but there was no shortage of obstacles between them at the moment.

To her credit, Sansa appeared to be more curious than skeptical. “You are the commander of our enemy’s army.”

He shook his head. “No more. Cersei has betrayed your bargain, but I will not. Euron Greyjoy gathers the Golden Company as we speak. Every moment we waste could mean the difference between life and death.”

“Kingslayer!” someone shouted. “Defector! Have you no honor?”

“Fuck honor.” There were a lot of different reactions to this statement, but the only one he wanted to see was Brienne’s. She watched him, her expression betraying nothing. “I vowed to defend the defenseless. I’ll fail if everyone dies.”

Sansa believed him, he could tell. Even Arya seemed to relax a little, but she glared at him to let him know she would never truly let her guard down. Well and good--if she was ready to fight, so much the better.

Without undue delay, someone was sent to Jon Snow and presumably to Aerys’s daughter, assuming she was still here as well. He fell into step behind Sansa, guarded on all sides by fighters armed to the teeth.

To his right was Brienne.

She was pretending she wasn’t looking him. He smiled at her anyway. “I fight left-handed now. They should have put you on the other side.”

“You are no danger to us here,” she asserted quietly. “You have too much honor.”

He snorted. “You may be the only one who thinks so.”

She looked at him openly then, a frown on her lips. She had a little scar on the top one, he noticed. It probably should have made her uglier, but it only had the effect of drawing his attention to her mouth. It was a good mouth, he decided. Her lips were a shade more sensual than those rosebud pouts beloved of troubadours in song. Like the rest of her, they had been built for purpose. Built to kiss, to bite, built to speak the truth. Had anyone ever kissed her before? He couldn’t remember if she’d said. He’d bet all the gold he had to his name that she was still a maiden. There wasn’t a man on earth worthy of her, himself included.

That is, if the gold was still his. One couldn’t bet with something that didn’t belong to him.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked.

“I was thinking about gambling.”

She huffed, shooting him a rotten look. “Depending on what you say to the King, you may be imprisoned or executed. Is now the right time to be thinking about gambling?”

“It is the best time to be thinking about gambling,” he replied. “It was a gamble to come up here, and every possible outcome is a loss. The gods alone know my fate now.”

She nodded toward his black cloak. “You have come to join the Night’s Watch.”

He laughed. “No. I rather suspect I’ll be of more use here. I thought only to disguise myself for the journey.” He lifted his gold hand to indicate the glove.

Brienne pursed her lips as though he had told a particularly ridiculous jest and she hadn’t the time nor patience for it. “It’ll take more than a bit of black to disguise you, Ser Jaime. You are rather distinctive looking.”

Jaime grinned. “Why Lady Brienne, was that a compliment?”

She flushed a rather sweet shade of pink. Her girlish qualities had a way of ambushing him out of nowhere, and they were all the more deadly for their rarity.

At last, they reached the hall. There were almost more people on the dais than there were on the floor. Jon Snow sat front and center with Daenerys Targaryen to his right. Sansa Stark took the seat to his left. Jon had pledged his loyalty to Aerys’s daughter in front of Cersei--Jaime himself had witnessed that particular lapse in judgment--but here, he was still King.

Tyrion stood beside Daenerys, his Hand of the Queen pin gleaming in the sickly sunlight. Jaime nodded to him discreetly. It couldn’t hurt to have his brother on his side.

To his considerable surprise, Sandor Clegane, his family’s own once-loyal dog, lurked over Sansa Stark like the Stranger himself. Whether or not his presence could help him, he could hardly say. Jaime was reasonably certain he could count on Brienne and Tyrion to speak for him, and he believed Sansa was convinced of his sincerity, but as for the others…

The creak of wheels echoed through the hall and Jaime came face to face with the last person he wanted to see.

Staring through him as though he could see all the secrets of his soul was Bran Stark.

Jaime was fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the love, especially on the last chapter. I hope you like this one, too. xx


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